metalia

And We Didn't Even Have to Win the Super Bowl!

2012-01-09T23:10:00.000-05:00

My friends, in less than two weeks, this is happening:

I recorded the kids' immediate reaction, but it was very sad and hilarious (sadlarious?) because they have no in-depth concept of time. ("Oh! Cool. We're going WHEN WE GET BIGGER??" "No, but REALLY SOON, guys." "We're going TONIGHT?!" "Oh, forget it.")

Once they understood a little bit more about when they were going, and what exists there, we were all very, very excited.

J has been to Disney World once in his life, as a seven year old, so he basically remembers nothing.
I, on the other hand, have been a number of times, all noteworthy in their own right:

Age 2: Meet Donald Duck. Proceed, per family legend, to have horrific, shriek-filled nightmares, all centering around Donald Duck's beak for the remainder of the trip.

Age 5: Apparently in a ballerina stage, I wore a series of leotards throughout the trip, and the only good picture of me is with the fat wolf sheriff from Robin Hood. This will become a theme.

Age 15: My grandparents took our entire family on a Disney cruise with a stop in the World itself, to celebrate a milestone anniversary. So nice, right? Yeah, QUID PRO QUO: We all had to wear matching oversize silk-screened t-shirts with a family picture, and "THE [LASTNAME] CLAN" emblazoned on it in red, 987-point font. Again, I was 15. Imagine, if you will, the vision of me, in a XL shirt, bloused out of pinstriped jorts, and Doc Martens, with matte raisin-colored lipstick, braces, and an expression like a hobo just shat on my shoes. RESPLENDENT.The only good picture of me is with an elderly man and Jafar, side by side.

Age 17: As I've mentioned in the past, I went to a very religious private all-girls high school. Somehow, we convinced them to allow us to go to Disney World for our senior trip. What they lacked in a bare collarbone/elbow/knee tolerance policy, they made up for in trip choice-related laxity. The only good picture of me is directly after I was felt up by the fat monkey from the Jungle Book. Do you see my arm positioning? PROTECTING MY BIDNESS. My modestly-attired high school self was scandalized!

Age 21: This was a time of my life punctuated by numerous good decisions, chief among them -- at least during my trip to Disney World -- getting my face painted like a toddler and purchasing a beaded, sparkly crown and prancing around like a fancy lady-slash-idiot.

Age 31: AIEEE! This is the second time we are taking the kids on a plane trip, and the last time was over two years ago. So, this could be a breeze, or I could want to off myself mid-flight. O, THE EXCITING MYSTERY OF IT ALL! And so, I ask you: what are your tried-and-true flight distractions for young kids (a 5 y.o. and a 3 y.o., to be specific), aside from the obvious (DVD player, snacks, tranq darts)?

Also, we are so thrilled about taking the kids to the park, and have plans about what we THINK would be good, in terms of schedules/attractions/rides, but --again -- what do you know that I don't? If you've gone to Disney World (and/or any similar gigantor park) Were there any things that were a huge hit (or a disastrous horrorshow) with your young kids? Do I bring a stroller for my five-year-old? WILL I GET PTSD FROM DONALD DUCK'S BEAK? Lay your knowledge on me!

Y Winner!

2012-01-09T21:55:00.001-05:00

And the winner of the Y Me! giveaway is...

#4, Beverley! Congratulations, Beverley! Please email me (metaliablog [AT] gmail [DOT] com), and the print will be on its way.

2011: The Recap

2011-12-31T19:58:00.000-05:00

Every year, Sundry does this great year-end wrap-up post, and invites everyone to play along. And so I shall!

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
Bought a house, got a job I'd been dying to get, and saw a nude man doing jumping jacks down Wall Street.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? 

I'm not really much for resolutions; I don't think I'm ABOVE them, or anything, it's just not my thing. My overall philosophy is "Be positive, work hard, be a good mom, wife and friend, and generally don't be an asshole." I'm sure there's room for improvement in all areas, but that's pretty much what I guide my life by, and I think I did okay this past year.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? 
My cousin, and a bunch of friends.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

NO JINX NO JINX LA LA LA LA LA

5. What countries did you visit?
None, but I did get to visit LA (albeit briefly) and Seattle (ditto), two places I've never been before.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?
I can't think of a thing. Wait, perhaps finally getting our act together in the new place, and getting window treatments that do not consist entirely of old fancy shower curtains. (OH YOU THINK I AM JOKING.)

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
The day we moved, the day I got the job, and the day I realized my son could really and truly read.
.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 
Going for (and getting) the aforementioned job.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Not keeping in touch with friends enough.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Well, aside from my brush with Vitamin D deficiency, J would tell you that no, I have not. But he apparently doesn't understand how FREQUENT TOE STUBBINGS can be exceedingly painful, and how I basically need a telethon in my honor and NO I WILL NOT JUST WEAR SLIPPERS COME ON

11. What was the best thing you bought?
House. Purple suede heels. Perfect trenchcoat. Kindle Fire. (The last one was a gift from J, but let's just include it here.) Nars Flamenco, the perfect red lipstick, at last. (Thanks again from the recommendation, Sarah.)

12. Where did most of your money go?
Mortgage, school/camp, and J.Crew.

13. What did you get really excited about?
Making the new house into our home, so Luther Vandross would stop singing that song on my front lawn, all guilty-making, at least in my head. Some great concerts. The laundry chute IN said house.

14. What song will always remind you of 2011?

"All At Once" by The Airborne Toxic Event. Apparently they've been around forever? But I only heard them for the first time this year? And fell hopelessly in love? And listened to this song (and the rest of their catalog) approximately 8,734 times? And also it's the best?

Also, "We Are Young" by Fun. I only heard it for the first time about a week or so ago, and so it's a late entry in this category, but I defy you not to listen to it on repeat.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you: 
– happier or sadder? Happier; I felt like a lot was up in the air, where-we-gonna-live-wise, and it was stressing me out. I feel settled, and it's a relief.
– thinner or fatter? The same, I think.
– richer or poorer? Richer, though I'm not buying a top hat and monocle anytime soon.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of? 
Spent more time with friends, read more (hola, Kindle Fire), written more here, and worked out some semblance of an actual fitness routine.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of? 
Second-guessing myself.

18. How did you spend Christmas?
We celebrate Chanukah, and spent it with our extended families, and of course, our own little family.

A highlight was telling the kids this:

19. What was your favorite TV program?
Friday Night Lights. The League. It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

20. What were your favorite books of the year?
The Dovekeepers. Cutting for Stone. THE IMPERFECTIONISTS OMG LOVE. Blueprints for Building Better Girls. Little Bee.

21. What was your favorite music from this year? 
The Airborne Toxic Event, FO SHO.

22. What were your favorite films of the year?
Another Earth, Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Bridesmaids, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
It was low-key, and at home, and my husband gave me this.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I loved this year, honestly--so many huge changes, for the good.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?
Business casual meets Audrey Hepburn and also Serena van der Woodsen.

26. What kept you sane?
Friends, near and far, my husband and kids, and good music.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011. 
The people who are tough (yet fair) with you are the people who teach you more.

To st
llow things, and not to be afraid to apologize.

That I have no idea what I'm doing as a parent, but my kids know they're cherished, we have fun, and so I'm okay with this.

To not be afraid to just ask the question. The worst that can happen is that I'll hear "no."

Happy New Year!

Y Me! (Wherein I write a post with all my sentences in alphabetical order.)

2011-12-18T23:08:00.002-05:00

As you may know, Secret Agent Josephine recently published three children's books, and is currently "out" on her virtual book tour. Brenda is someone I've known and adored ever since I began blogging eons ago, and so when she asked me if I'd be a stop on the book tour, I said YES YES YES.

Clearly, she is talented; I love her and her work, and am thrilled to be a part of it.

Do you, as I do, have young children in your life? Even my older kid was enthralled by these books, but my preschooler was utterly transfixed, particularly with the ABC's one.

For just $2.99, you can download any of the electronic titles to your Kindle, iPad or Nook. Gorgeous colors and inventive illustrations pop off the screen! (Her absolute favorite was the letter "U for Underpants" page, as you can see, above.) In London, April's a Spring month. Just so you know, the books are all available in hardcover, as well. Keep track of SAJ’s Stealthy Book Tour here. (there are clues to collect along the tour!)

Lovely as all of this is, there's ALSO something in it for you. Ms. Secret Agent Josephine is offering an 8x10 print of "my" letter, the letter Y, from the ABC book, to give away here on this blog, hence the alphabetical theme I've seen fit to impose upon myself here, as I love a challenge. No crazy rules, or anything, just tell me your favorite "Y" word in the comments. One winner will be chosen after comments close a week from today, Monday, December 26, 2011, at 11:59 EST. Piece of cake, right? Quick and easy! Rest assured, the print is awesome:

Sounds fun, right?

To recap, here are some quick links to help you find the books:

iPad/iPhone: ABCs, Colors, and Numbers.
Kindle: ABCs, Colors, and Numbers.
Nook: ABCs, Colors, and Numbers.
Paperback: ABCs, Colors, Numbers.

Until XXXX, you can enter to with the print.

Visit Secret Agent Josephine’s blog or Facebook to follow the tour!

What are you waiting for? Xenon to change its form of matter from a heavy, colorless and odorless gas found in very small quantities in the Earth’s atmosphere, or something? (I AM SORRY, X is hard.) You, sir or ma'am, are NOT. Zip on over and check out SAJ's books, and leave a comment below by Monday the 26th to win a Y print of your very own.

Good luck!!

The Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1 Rap

2011-12-06T23:06:00.001-05:00

Bella Swan representin’ up in 360!

(Nooooo, I didn’t have to Google search that area code!)

Edward’s gonna marry me- we ‘bout to have some fun.

Too bad my ring looks like it’s from Forever 21.

I’m only 18, but I make such good decisions.

Here I come, all dressed in white, I’m truly a vision.

I don’t need no college, yo, I’mma be his wife.

I’ll get my education in the school OF LIFE.

By “life,” I mean “death,” cuz a vampire I’ll be.

Soon after the wedding of my boo Edward, and me.

But hush, now; hush! It’s on the DL, son.

Keep it like a secret up in Area 51.

Jacob is enraged at this – quelle surprise.

He’s all were-pissed and fursplodes, running off into the trees.

I’m focused on my wedding night, not that son of a gun.

I got 99 problems, but that wolf ain’t one.

We fly to South America, to our own private isle!

I’m Mrs. Edward Cullen, but I’m full of nervous bile.

Like the Starship Enterprise, steered by Captain Picard,

We on a big-time mission: It’s to cash in my V-Card.

Without delving into detail, I’m no longer a virgin.

The crashing waves! The ocean breeze! Right there, among the sturgeon.

The bed, it breaks; the feathers fly, the candles flicker so.

Is…this a Twilight movie, or a Meat Loaf video?

Somehow, I’m pregnant by a vampire, which seems so insane.

It’s just as bad as Superman knocking up Lois Lane.

In my defense, he is mad old, and already sorta…killed.

Who’da thought I ever woulda needed Tha Pill?

The wolfpack then finds out the news, and takes it all quite well.

Just kidding! They freak out and vow to send us to hell.

They have some…psychic werewolf fight, ‘bout how and if they’ll strike.

Not unlike a Nevernude, it’s just what it sounds like.

I’m pregnant with a demon spawn, it’s taking my lifeforce.

But I’m full of blissful martyrdom, I ain’t got no remorse!

Since I’m feeling so pale an’ sickly, I drink a blood smoothie.

And like the 59^th Street Bridge song, I am feelin’ groovy.

Hark! My back is broken, but not so much my water.

All the same, the baby’s coming, and I’m ‘bout to be slaughtered.

Blood! Bitey c-section! And also, there’s a baby.

It’s vampire! It’s human! I’m dead! Kind of! Maybe!

Edward vampire-bites me, so as to bring me back.

And let’s be honest: ‘cuz I’m a delicious ladysnack.

The venom courses through my veins; it’s ever so bizarre!

And boom—my eyes pop open, like that scene in Avatar.

We’ll be back again soon for Part 2 of Breaking Dawn;

To fight off some Volturi, and make their asses gone.

So much is uncertain, on one thing we can agree.

“Renesme” truly is a name of timeless cool beauty .

Recently, I...

2011-11-28T21:44:00.001-05:00

Celebrated our eighth anniversary:

Contemplated bangs. Again. Poorly.

Met many people, including Big Jumper, the self-named unsung hero of the first Thanksgiving:

...his sister, Mademoiselle Butterfly:

...and LaRaconteuse:

Ate your soul:

Visited J's office (decidedly the winner of the unofficial Parent-With-the-Coolest-Office Contest I decided to run, just now, between the two of us.)...

And saw the city through their eyes.

Commenced working on my masterpiece, The Twilight: Breaking Dawn rap. It's...it's a work in progress.

And you?

Review: Dove Nutrium Moisture Body Wash

2011-11-21T21:08:00.001-05:00

Every year around this time, I feel it coming, and it arrives without warning.

Oh, people LOVE to romanticize cooler temperatures, and crisp fall air, but beneath the autumnal leaf veneer, I know what’s coming: DRY SKIN. NOOOO.

I was recently asked by BlogHer and Dove to review Dove Nutrium Moisture Body Wash. Not knowing what Nutrium was, but intrigued by the “moisturizing body wash” part, I happily signed on, hoping that it would help me stave off any cool weather-related dry skin woes.

Now, ordinarily when I review products, I like to take a picture of myself using them, but there are some lengths to which I will not go. Suffice it to say that I did utilize the body wash in the shower. Swearsies.

I’m a fan of a good rich lather, and the Dove Nutrium Body Wash had it is spades. It quickly and cleanly rinsed away, but left my skin nicely moisturized. I was also pleasantly surprised by the scent. I’m a bit persnickety when it comes to scented products, but this was very light; it smelled clean and fresh on my skin in the shower, but didn’t compete with my perfume at all once I was out and dressed. The true proof of the body wash’s effectiveness came a bit later--I didn’t need to slather my legs with body butter like I usually do this time of year. I’m not certain if I’ll completely be able to swear off my beloved body butter as we ease into winter, but the Dove Nutrium Moisture Body Wash body wash is definitely going to be a part of my routine.

While we’re on the subject of routines, I have a few little things I do each day, that make me feel…centered. I don’t mean in some hippie, sage-burning drum circle way (UNLESS THAT IS YOUR THING OH MAN I AM NOT JUDGING), but rather, just...ready for the day. I shower at night before I go to sleep, and when my alarm goes off at 5:45, I hop out of bed (as much as anyone ever hops at 5:45 AM), and get myself together. I apply my sundry face lotions and makeup, slip on my outfit (like a toddler, I pick out my clothes the night before), and head out into the city. I try to get my brain running by catching up on my Words With Friends games, and once I arrive at my destination, I pick up my morning iced coffee (light and sweet, please) and head upstairs to my office, ready to face the day. I love my routine, and taking those few moments to myself to nourish ME, inside and out. (Did I just say that? I just said that.)

What about you? Do you have a YOU routine? How do you nourish yourself each day?

Answer that question, and you will be entered to win a random drawing for a $100 SpaFinder gift card!

The contest runs from 11/21/11 through 12/21/11.

No duplicate comments.

You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry

methods:

a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post

b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post

c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post

d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.

There are more chances to win here.

This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older.

Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail.

You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be

selected.

Here are the official rules!

Please don't make me feel any dumber than I already do about the "Come Undone" thing.

2011-11-01T23:38:00.000-04:00

(Disclosure: I received tickets to a Duran Duran concert in exchange for sharing my thoughts about the show. All thoughts are my own. Particularly those regarding the chorus of "Come Undone," as will soon become clear.)

Last week (before the power outage that overtook my life, but that is a post for another day), I was asked to attend the New York show of Duran Duran's US tour. I've long loved the band. I grew up watching the Pop-Up Video version of "Rio" (Side note: What happened to Pop-Up Video? BRING BACK POP-UP VIDEO.), and singing "Ordinary World" into my toothbrush. And even though I STILL don't know what I'm singing when I shriek the high part of "Come Undone," all these years later, I'd never seen them in concert, and immediately said yes.

J and I showed up at Madison Square Garden and made our way to our seats, and I immediately started sharing with him my list of what I always THOUGHT the lyrics to the high shrieky part of "Come Undone" were. It's called being a great conversationalist, and I am the master of it.

LIST OF MY PERCEIVED LYRICS TO THE HIGH SHRIEKY PART OF "COME UNDONE"

1. Cannot believe you got me now boy; you believe it? Come on and see you breakin' my heart to pieces.
2. Common to see the fall in two parts, ooh, steamy. Common to see you bade my heart to peace, yeah.

Needless to say, he was riveted.

An exciting Google search revealed that the answer is "Can't ever keep from falling apart at the seams/Can I believe you're taking my heart to pieces." Who knew? SERIOUSLY NOT ME, FOR REAL.

Fortunately, the show soon got underway.

Simon Le Bon took to the stage in amazing sparklepants that could be viewed from space, and he, along with the rest of the band (and a few special guests) proceeded to rock the hell out of the Garden. They played a lot of the classics (The Reflex! HUNGRY LIKE THE MEEEEEE!), and, since the band has a new album out, they played a lot of new stuff, as well.

Duran Duran put on a really great show -- regardless of whether or not we knew every song -- because they just seemed like they were having FUN up there. I've been to a lot of concerts (remind me to tell you guys about the Snoop Dogg one sometime, and how I did NOT participate in the onstage bootyshake contest.), and you can generally tell when the band is into it. These guys had a ton of energy, and really came across as though they were enjoying themselves as much as the audience.

In all we had a fantastic time (see?)...

...and I highly recommend checking them out when/if they come to a city near you!

L.A. Story

2011-10-16T22:10:00.000-04:00

A work-related event found me hurtling through the sky, L.A.-bound a week ago today. Things came together quickly, so that I barely even had time to worry about flying, which is good, because we all know what can happen when I do that, which is, oh, I don't know, frantically run to the nearest available TSA agent to report upon two passengers engaging in what appear to be suspicious activities, when, in point of fact, they are US Air Marshals doing some pre-flight Air Marshal Stuff. Oh, me. It's really just a matter of time before you end up on the Bad List.

I've never been to LA (unless...do you count a visit when I was a toddler? Me, neither.), and so I was the wide-eyed ingenue, staring at palm trees (which...I've totally seen before? So I have no idea why I did this?) and craning my neck to catch a glimpse of a Kardashian or two as soon as I hit the ground. What my visit lacked in Kardashians, it more than made up for in palm trees. And a visit with two of my favorite ladies.

When I mentioned to Sarah and Rebecca that I was coming to town, we worked frantically to squeeze in a visit. Because this was such a fast trip, I had about ten minutes to plan for the few hours of free time I had in town Sunday evening. Sarah scored us tickets to the fun (and Mad Men-themed!) OC Blogger Bash. Our plan: Hang out in my hotel room getting dolled up in advance. The three of us are old-time (in blog years) friends, so this would be fun under ordinary circumstances, but said fun is compounded EXPONENTIALLY when you factor in that the last time the three of us saw each other, I was seven months pregnant.

What is up with my bangssssssss

With a child who is now three. Needless to say, it's been a while. Geography is, like, the worst.

You should also factor in the stream of makeup/hair/fashion-related emails we frequently exchange (recommendations! questions! enabling! YOU ARE WELCOME, SEPHORA), such that the opportunity to actually see each other AND have a reason to do Extra Fancy Hair and Makeup together in the same room? Well, we were very excited, indeed.

Sarah brought a Mary Poppins-like bag of magical hair things, and taught me and Rebecca the answers to some of life's important questions, like "What is a sock bun?" and "What product can I use to get my hair to stay put when I'm trying to make it do some vague, stewardess-y windswept '60s thing oh lord help I have no idea what I'm doing?" Together, we all extolled the virtues of the perfect red lipstick (Nars' Flamenco: WINNER.), compared our latest makeup purchases, and waxed poetic on the glory that is the Haribo Gummi Peach.

The event itself was lovely (and who DOESN'T want to see my one-woman impression of two seventh-graders with crushes on each other dancing to a slow song at a school dance?), but truly, I hold a special place in my heart for the (too) few hours I got to hang out with two of my dearest internet friends.

Sigh. Geography, man.

Etch-A-Sketch Animator 2000: A love story

2011-09-25T21:00:00.001-04:00

I turn 31 tomorrow. Or today, depending on when you're reading this. Or yester--okay, my birthday is now-ish. September 26th. Let's go with that.

This past year was full of good, big things. A new house. A new position/promotion I worked hard to get. Kids seamlessly adjusting to the move, and losing their minds with joy over their own rooms, their own swing set. Good, big things.

J had been asking what I wanted for my birthday, and honestly, I couldn't think of anything. ANYthing. It wasn't some Secret Lady Ploy, either. I genuinely couldn't think of anything I wanted. Which is weird, but whatever. I figured we'd just go out for a really nice dinner, and I would be -- really -- perfectly content. I have everything I need.

* * * * *

The Etch A Sketch Animator 2000 was the toy I always wanted as a kid, and never got. It was love at first sight for me, and I could think of nothing else. I imagined all the amazing things it could do, and daydreamed of having one of my own. It had come out right around the time I started losing my baby teeth, and I would pen these lengthy notes to the Tooth Fairy each time I lost a tooth, casually (and KINDLY, I thought at the time) inquiring as to how she was doing, before launching into what can best be described as plaintive, heartfelt, uh, begging for the Etch A Sketch Animator. I would carefully tuck the note into the tooth-shaped pillow my mom had sewed me, along with the tooth, and I'd burrow under my covers, wriggling like a puppy. I'd try to stay up, but at the same time, force myself to sleep, knowing full well that the Tooth Fairy wouldn't show up until I was really and truly asleep. I'd hope that this was the time, and the Animator would be MINE.

In the morning, there would be a little gift, like a Barbie, or some money, and a note, always a note, shaped like a tooth. Every time, the note told me how things were going for the Tooth Fairy, and then apologized, telling me there simply weren't any Etch A Sketch Animators in Tooth Fairy land that time, but maybe one day, if I kept being a good girl, and brushing my teeth well, I would get one. The note left out, of course, that the true Tooth Fairies couldn't really swing the expense of a $50+ toy for me at the time. I just kept brushing well, and never stopped hoping.

* * * * *

A while back, J and I were talking about our favorite childhood toys, and I mentioned this story. The conversation went on, turned to other topics, and I didn't give it a second thought.

For my birthday, I came home to a box, which contained this.

He found it for me.

I sat with it for a while tonight, playing (it still works perfectly, and it's everything I thought it would be, even 24 years later), and tearing up. Not for the toy, but for the effort, for the memory, for what my husband thought to do for me.

Like I said, I have everything I need.

On the Other Hand, "The Apple Thieves" Would Be A Great Band Name

2011-09-18T17:30:00.001-04:00

The thing about children is that you sit there for at least a year or two, willing the day to arrive, that day where they can clearly communicate their wishes, their thoughts, their feelings, and then that day comes. And you don't NOTICE that day, because there's no fanfare, or anything, but it happens all the same, and you will turn around at some point, and realize your baby has turned into a sentient, articulate little person, and you will be filled with a swell of pride.

Until they do something like this.

Here's something I never thought I'd need to clarify, but all the same: I am not an apple thief, nor did my daughter and I share an ill-gotten apple at the supermarket. Fortunately, I know and love my daughter's teachers, so I will, I hope, be able to clear our previously good name.

Despite the apple-related aspersions being cast about by my daughter, we still went forward with our plan to go apple picking today. It was exactly as I had hoped it would be, putting aside the car barf extravaganza of which we shall not speak, and the loss of my beloved sunglasses somewhere in the zillion acre apple orchard. Vaya con manzanas, Ray-Ban Warriors.

It was a lovely afternoon, made even lovelier by the discovery of an apple clearly grown in Chernobyl. Something you need to do upon finding an apple this size, you see, is immediately pose for a Twilight cover. Or, frankly, ANY BOOK COVER AT ALL, given the way things appear to be trending lately:

My fake book cover also serves to providing a visual conclusion to the fascinating (ha!) question of what color I should dye my hair. I will also tell your fortune now (trying to protect the newly-colored hair from the sun, you see):

And now, I'm off to make an apple crisp. With PROPERLY PURCHASED APPLES. What the hell else am I going to do with a half bushel of apples? That wasn't rhetorical, by the way. HELP MEEEEE.

Stone v. Aniston: A Hair Quandary

2011-09-13T22:41:00.000-04:00

Exciting news! I'm finally getting my hair cut and colored on Thursday night. This appointment is LONG OVERDUE, and I probably should've warned you about this truly thrilling AND groundbreaking development in all of our lives before just SPRINGING IT ON YOU like that. My apologies. I change up my hair so rarely that whenever I do, I become wrapped up in What I Shall Decide On, and How It Will Look, and oh, god. Now you're just going to suffer along with me, I'm afraid.

I deliberated, and settled on my plan -- Emma Stone red -- (so perfect for fall! Maybe?) when I mentioned the hair appointment to my mom earlier this evening.

Now, my mom is genuinely the kindest person I know, but she also does not mince words when it comes to my hair. ("I did not like what you did last time." -- My mom.) She then told me to make it "brown-gold," because I "don't have the skin tone for that red." And what it came down to, really, was that I should go back to my original hair color. ANYway, at first I scoffed, but then I was like, "huh, brown- gold could work...maybe?"

Credit: InStyle

(While I have sufficiently ensured that my husband is MOS DEF no longer reading this post, does anyone have any connections for Book of Mormon tickets? The show is forever sold out, and I would like for it to be a Magical Anniversary/Chanukah/Columbus Day Surprise, one which it seems near impossible to achieve, assuming I do NOT wish to part with my kidneys! Totally willing to pay full price! JUST WANT TO KEEP MY KIDNEYS.)

(I am a strategy MASTER.)

(Back to the hair!)

SO, before I ask you to weigh in (AND I WILL), here's a picture of me/my hair taken three minutes ago. (I had attempted a tousled wave thing at 5:45 this morning, which went exactly as well as you would expect for pre-dawn hair styling, and now it is nearly 15 hours later):

Now, I don't like to talk about this much, because I feel funny bragging, but I'm kind of a photo editing wizard. In order for you to have a true vision of the options here, I've taken the liberty of showing you both potential choices as realistically as I can with my (copious) skills:

Okay, NOW you can weigh in. Auburn-ish? Or Golden-Caramel-Brown-ish? Please advise!

Hello! (Also, A Mustache Story.)

2011-09-07T22:25:00.000-04:00

I honestly didn't realize it had been over a month since I last posted here. I wish I had some exciting news to share, or some compelling reason to explain this away, but it's truly just the thrilling trifecta of work, life, and the time it takes to get from work to home, and vice versa. And really, do you consider "an endless series of horrific commutes home via bus," something you want to hear more about? Unless Keanu Reeves figures prominently therein, I assume you do not, for hearing about someone else's commute stories is like hearing about someone else's dreams.

And lo, the rest of the summer has happened. We're settled into the house, I went for (and got!) a promotion to a new position, which I absolutely love, the kids went to camp, we went to the Poconos and came back, and yeah, great, life is a glorious orb of pure and fleeting wonder, but really, where we are is that my legacy here for over a goddamn month has been a nude man doing jumping jacks down Wall Street.

I miss writing here; it's time to dive back in, and so, we're going to talk about the elephant in the room, which is my husband's mustache problem. Obviously.

As I've mentioned before, J is MOS DEF the saner, more rational one, out of of the pair of us, which is what makes this tale -- like the Scarlet J one -- so curious. Prior to leaving for vacation, J stopped shaving, and a nice scruffy beard came in. The man looks good with a nice scruffy beard, and not at all homeless or patchy (really!), so I didn't give it a second thought. Tra la la, off we went to enjoy the Poconos; its beautiful weather, its amazing farm stands, and its preponderance of skateboarding carnies gathered in a parking lot, which is exactly what I deserve for going to a 24-hour Walmart at 11:30 PM to buy a cake for literally no reason, but I digress.

Anyway, one night, we were headed out to the movies, and I hear him shaving. "Guess he decided he was done with the beard!" I think to myself. What I SHOULD have been thinking to myself was, "Chris Hansen is probably readying his camera team in the creepy clearing behind this house right the hell now, because oh my god."

I CANNOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THIS PICTURE. IT IS LIKE THE SUN. IF THE SUN LOOKED AS THOUGH IT WOULD LURE YOU INTO A WINDOWLESS VAN WITH SOME CANDY.

I tried everything. I told him he looked like a cop, a baseball player from 1987, and Super Mario, and frankly, it all backfired, because he thought all of those things were awesome. Then he started PREENING with it, and I wanted to die. Everyone else, obviously, found the entire situation -- including my response -- to be hilarious, but they are not married to the mustache man, who was, at that very moment, insisting we all head out, lest we be late to the movie. If you think he did not insist upon talking to literally everyone who crossed our path that evening, then truly, you do not get the scope of the horror.

A FULL DAY LATER, he finally relented, very reluctantly, and I happily shared the good news. Our (my) long (24-hour) national (just me, again) nightmare (nightmare) was over!

Then came Monday. He picked me up wearing this.

I'm pretty sure this means war. By all means, please feel free to weigh in with your ideas. IDEAS THAT DO NOT INVOLVE LADY 'STACHES.

This is Hard.

2011-08-02T22:03:00.001-04:00

What I am about to write was really hard for me.

It's going to ruffle feathers.

It's going to upset some people.

But I have to do it.

For me. For my emotions.

I have to just put aside the fact that BlogHer is this week, because I need to tak about this, and it must be done now.

For the core of my very self.

(Deep breaths.)

Haaaaaaaa, oh god. Nah, just effing with you. Here, you guys. Please, behold, as I did, the glorious view of a crazy man (ostensibly not actually crazy, but part of a larger piece of "performance art") who was proudly jumping jack-ing his way down Wall Street very early yesterday morning, directly in my path. Nude, save for kneepads.

God, I love this city something fierce. (I mean, I did flee to a safe distance to obtain this shot, laughing and taking pictures along with everyone else, but that doesn't diminish the sentiment.)

(I think this tops this, yes?)

Free Makeup, Ahoy!

2011-07-27T21:29:00.000-04:00

I have spent the better part of my afternoon at the DMV and have Some Things to Say, but while I mentally recover from the experience, I dare you to tell me you don't want this mascara RIGHT NOW. (Review/contest for Mary Kay, now up on my review blog.)

Clothes Minded

2011-07-13T23:09:00.000-04:00

When J and I were first married, and I was a lot more, uh, spendy, there came a point where he was all, "you do not need more shoes. Please stop buying shoes. Also, we are basically poor now because of the shoes." So, I swore up and down that I would stop buying shoes, so that we could afford things such as food, and electricity.

Within a matter of days of my vow, however, I was crossing the street and stepped into a Mirage Puddle that appeared to be shallow, but in actuality was approximately as deep as an Olympic diving pool. Or some other thing that is very deep. However we want to describe it, though, the takeaway here is that I literally lost my shoe in said puddle, necessitating a man in a pickup truck who was driving by to come help me FISH IT OUT WITH A BROOM HANDLE.

Not wanting to wear a squelchy mystery-mud-caked, heel, I was forced -- by HAPPENSTANCE! -- to buy some new shoes. J was forced to buy what seemed like an elaborate ruse, and accept the rationale for the purchase. After all, it was an act of God, basically! Puddles: very tricky!

* * * * *

A few years later, this happened again, believe it or not, only replace the "food, and electricity" part with "the cost of raising our tiny child," and the "in a mudpuddle" location of the errant shoe with "automatically flushing toilet that wouldn't flush, necessitating me to flush it with my flat, except the flat slipped off my foot and into said toilet, and if you think I am above leaving the shoe in there to die, and then wrapping paper towels around my foot to hobble across the street to Nine West to buy -- yet again -- some new shoes, you, sir or madam, could not be more wrong." J once again incredulously listened to my compelling tale of the new flats.

* * * * *

As you know, we recently purchased a new home, and -- hope you don't mind the complex economics lesson -- houses be expensive, as be kitchen renovations, day camp, and, you know, everything. Up to and including whatever the hell is going on up in here, because...Jesus.

I think I need a Rita Hayworth poster for my ceiling.

Needless to say, we're trying not to wildly spend rightthisminute.

The other day, I was on my way to the office, and was making my way through Port Authority. Down the escalator I went, headphones on, blissfully unaware of what was happening behind me, which, as it turned out, was a man stumbling on the escalator, causing the rest of us ahead of him to go a-tumblin' like dominoes. I was close to the bottom, and so, when I fell directly on my own butt, it was in the precise spot where the escalator levels off. My expensive suit pants (because obviously) got caught between the...escalator steps (?), and ripped clean across the right cheek, exposing an alarming and embarrassing expanse of...me. Lest you think I am exaggerating in some way? I ASSURE YOU I AM NOT. Here is my hand for some scale:

Fortunately, there was a Gap around the corner. Unfortunately, that still meant walking wearing what essentially amounted to ASSLESS MERINO WOOL CHAPS, which left me sort of...FLINGING my bag behind my back, and simultaneously arching my back so my shirt dipped down, and caaaaasually draping my hand behind me, all in a futile attempt to cover the crater-sized tear. I had a meeting (because obviously) so I couldn't just buy anything -- I needed to find a matching pair of black suit pants. I found a near-perfect match, paid, and wore them out of the store. It was embarrassing experience, to say the least, and I say that having -- on a separate occasion, years ago -- lost my actual underwear in Times Square.

Yet again, I had bought new apparel, THROUGH NO FAULT OF MY OWN, and a very, very compelling excuse for its purchase.

If I didn't know any better, I would say the universe WANTS me to get new stuff, wouldn't you?

The Sum of All Fears (For Me)

2011-07-11T21:55:00.001-04:00

A spider-infested, china doll-filled lighthouse, inhabited by a clown, located in a zoo, which broadcasts a running loop of heroin injection scenes from Trainspotting and Requiem for a Dream, that one episode of Webster where he gets lost in the secret passage in his house, and the part of Follow That Bird! where the Dodos tell Big Bird that HE is a dodo now, all interspersed with sounds of people grouting tile, and getting fabric caught in drawers.

And you?

Moving On Up/Out/In

2011-06-27T21:49:00.001-04:00

So, that's done. After -- MY GOD -- 10 years of living in NYC (and its boroughs), I have returned to my ancestral home, the great (?) state of New Jersey. The move itself was bittersweet, but I didn't have too much time to dwell at the time, because the act of moving itself made me want to set myself aflame.

I don't know why we rehired the terrible movers we used last ti--oh, wait; yes I do: they were cheap as all get out. You get what you pay for, though, and what we paid for, then, I suppose, were deodorant-eschewing movers who lovingly wrapping PLASTIC CHILDREN'S IKEA BOWLS in numerous layers of bubble wrap, but tossed light bulbs in with jugs of anvil-sized dish soap. Yayyyy! Glass glitter for all! Also, they excitedly brought this to me, as though it were the Hope Diamond.

Thank you, movers, for finding -- somewhere -- my wizard mood ring from 1993! Now, at long last, I know how to feel again. And what color those feelings are.

One of the feelings I had during the move was the feeling of wanting to cry, upon seeing how the movers opted to label our shorts. Mood Ring Feeling: BLACK

SUMMER FAT SHORTS, YOU GUYS. I CAN'T EVEN.

Those feelings of boundless tears soon turned to laughter, as I saw how they labeled some of our menorahs and whatnot:

At this point, we are pretty much done unpacking -- although coated in a fine layer of dust -- but instead of completing the unpacking, or banishing the dust from the premises, I have been doing very important things, like this.

It's honestly been a bit crazy this past week trying to get it all unpacked/clean/organized, work full-time, and still, you know, see our children, but it's been worth it, especially when we get to hang out with the kids in the backyard, or as they call it, ""our playground."

Definitely worth it.

Three.

2011-06-20T21:44:00.000-04:00

"Make me a braidy braid, Mama! Please?!" she shrieks, and I oblige, because let's be honest, from the minute they tell you it's a girl, you dream about doing stuff like that.

Pigtails, too.

Make no mistake, though-- despite her clearly-communicated hair preferences, she goes from "coiffed" to "naked, disheveled, and frankly indistinguishable from a street urchin" in the blink of an eye, and wears her food as much as she eats it. She also sometimes sets the ol' makeup gun on "whore."

She's my goofball.

She loves blocks, coloring, singing with her brother, running (away), and playing with her dolls, all of which she has named after our downstairs neighbor, and tumbling and swimming.

She loves to act like a big girl, but when she goes to sleep at night, she tells me to "tuck [her] in like a born baby," (A "BORN BABY.") which is reminiscent of a cocoon. She adores playing dress-up and "Let's Go to Work," which, from what I can tell, basically entails putting on sparkly Lip Smackers, scarves, and jewelry. (Look, I know it's SOMEone's job, but I promise, it's not mine.) Then we have to scribble on paper with a deeply furrowed brow and pretend to talk on the phone, which, okay, may be something she picked up from me.

She makes me tell her stories about my wedding, and also about Princess Kate Who Is Really a Princess, and yes, Princess Kate totally has that Target swim cover-up, I swear, so you should wear it today, too, baby girl, okay?

She balances her brother; she brings him out of his shell, and he calms her inherent nuttiness. They're a perfect pair.

She has a fearless confidence that I frankly wish I had now, and hope she always retains, and even though her expressions occasionally scare the crap out of me...

...I'm happy she's no wallflower.

Happy third birthday, baby girl.

(Ice cream cake picnic on the floor, as we are MOVING TOMORROW, OH MY HELL.)

Elsewhere...

2011-06-17T19:33:00.000-04:00

~ Forever 21 is at it again, and by "at it," I mean "putting out cute stuff that looks more expensive than it is, specifically, this dress and this necklace."

~ Olay has knocked off Yves Saint Laurent's Touche Eclat for half the price, and it's not too shabby.

Have a great weekend!

Things I am Doing Right Now Instead of Packing

2011-06-13T22:52:00.000-04:00

We move a week from tomorrow. My husband is in Vegas for the week on business. I have a barfing child in the heezy. "This is a really important time for you to buckle down and pack," you are probably thinking. And you'd be right, thinking that, but if you actually SAID it to me right now, I'd probably start flailing all up in your grill, re: the aforementioned traveling husband (HOW CONVENIENT, J), and the barfchild, and the sheer volume of Stuff to Do, and then you'd run away. So, here's what I've been doing instead of packing:

1. Getting misty every time I walk around the neighborhood.

2. Humming "Memories" to myself, frequently.

3. Frequently to the point that I become distracted, trying to remember if, when Tom Hanks sings to his mom in Big, it was Barbra Streisand's "The Way We Were," or "Memory" from Cats.

4. Oh, whatever, you sit there all haughty because the titles are different, but "misty watercolor memories of the way we were" and "memories of my days in the sun" are CONCEPTUALLY SIMILAR.

5. Don't even get me started on my issues with Cats. Or that a cat is, in that song anyway, telling us that if we touch her, we'll understand what happiness is. And seriously, that is the least of my problems with Cats.

6. Googling to find the answer regarding my song question, and then discovering this gem.

7. Watching many episodes of My Drunk Kitchen. ("So, the worst part about baking is everything about baking.")

8. Trying on basically all of my shoes for no apparent reason.

9. Same with my Princess Kate Hat.

10. Admit it, you want to invite me over for tea now, don't you?

11. It's okay! Don't fight it! Such is the hat's power! Can you, please? So I don't have to pack? I like tea!

12. Eating sesame sticks like it's my job.

13. Hovering over the "checkout" button on account of this dress, but -- upon further consideration of white linen in August in New York -- letting sanity prevail.

14. Buying this instead.

15. Making packing LISTS. (That totally counts for something, I don't care what you say.)

16. Reading my old journals under the guise of Organizing, but really, so I can read my poetic gems, such as "Angst," which, no, will never, ever get old.

Elsewhere...

2011-06-12T22:24:00.000-04:00

~~ Spin Pins: I...am on the fence.

~~ Beachy Summer Hair: My favorite products.

~~ Great Summer Moisturizer Aert!

"A Whole Hand"

2011-06-01T22:09:00.002-04:00

He's obsessed with keys and locks right now, and garage doors that open with remotes. I'm fairly certain he would happily dwell IN a garage, provided it opened with a key and/or clicker.

He loves Cars and Star Wars, Scooby Doo, and Megamind, and dinosaurs. Always dinosaurs. He can't get enough of Grand Central Terminal, the Mets, crap that glows in the dark, magnet blocks, spelling, somersaulting, and this one gray hoodie that I can NEVER LOSE.

He visits my office just once a year, but that doesn't stop us from forever talking about the NEXT time he's going to come, and what will happen then, and will we get donuts again, and can he get ice from the special machine, and can he see the helicopters again? What about the Statue-a Limerty?

He came out of his shell a lot this year, and while I would never APPLAUD rebellion, inside, I secretly cheer when I see him testing limits, and taking risks, even in his own cautious way.

He knows more about the solar system than I do, and laughs when I desperately try to explain how Pluto was, like, seriously a planet at one point. He used to be a diehard fan of the color yellow (whatever that may actually BE to him, seeing as he's colorblind with a few colors), but he's switched allegiances to blue, since "yellow is for the babies, actually." The "actually" kills me dead, yes.

He loves his sister to pieces, and in his "All About Me" book at school, his "What Makes Me Sad" line was, "When my sister doesn't hold my hand." (COULD YOU DIE.)

He's all lean and lanky, and his wrists look like real-people wrists, not like the giant sumo baby ones they once were. Just when I worry he's getting too big, too fast, he tells me he wants to go "cractice" his song for his "gradulation," and I breathe a sigh of relief, because he's still -- a little bit -- my baby. (Even if gradulation is rapidly approaching.)

Happy 5th Birthday, buddy.

If I Was Wearing Pearls They Would've Been CLUTCHED.

2011-05-30T21:26:00.002-04:00

I've always prided myself on my live-and-let-live parenting attitude. Cry it out? Okay! Whatever the current opposite of that is? Sure! Formula from Day One? Whatever works for you! Breastfeeding until your kid is four? Sure! No TV? A'ight! Steady stream of Nick Jr.? Fiiiiiine! I am the honey badger of caring about these things, basically!

I am rapidly realizing, though, that I have One Parenting Thing which makes me Hulk-like with rage. There are obvious situation, sure, like seeing kids not properly restrained in moving cars, or parents smoking all up in their kids faces, but this, while not life-threatening in any way, still makes me have uncontrollable, angry-judgy eyes.

I speak of parents taking their kids to horrifically inappropriate films. By way of background, I grew up with relatively strict parents. I was only allowed to see PG-13 movies once I WAS 13, and even then -- EVEN THEN! -- they had to vet them first. With that in mind, though, is there any reason you can think of which explains why two seemingly mentally sound parents would take their baby and toddler to a 10:20 PM showing of The Hangover II?

I saw them in line, and found myself staring at them in abject, open-mouthed disgust, quietly muttering "REALLY?" to J. Because the thing is, there is ACTUALLY NO EXCUSE FOR IT. I'm not great at typing up flow charts, but rest assured, if I WAS, all signs would point to NO EXCUSE/THESE PARENTS ARE ASSHOLES. Let's dissect:

~ It's 10:20.

~ You KNOW going in that the movie is going to be inappropriate for kids. And if you haven't already seen it, believe you me, this is AGGRESSIVELY inappropriate for kids.

~ If you don't have a babysitter, DON'T GO. If a babysitter is too expensive, DON'T GO. It's The Hangover II, not your sister's wedding.

~ There were already, like, 472 loud, fratty jerks in the theater, and that baby was louder than all of them. Not the baby's fault, obviously, but COME ON.

~ I started overthinking things, and feeling guilty for everyone involved -- Zach Galifianakis, the guy who sells the popcorn, the projectionist, me -- because we were all complicit, somehow, in this couple's horrible parenting decision.

I think I missed half the movie because of the loud baby and my overthinking, but also because I was very busy having Imaginary Uncharacteristically Confrontational Discussions with the parents of these kids. Just a whole lot of "the jerk store called, they're running out of you" type stuff, complete with the "you should be ASHAMED of yourselves" kicker.

I of course said nothing, even when we saw them strolling on out after the movie, but I...well, I feel no guilt for my judging this scene. This isn't the first time I've seen crap like this, though, and I'm wondering when/if I would work up the courage to ever say anything, and if so, what I would actually say. What about you? Do you have any parenting stuff that sets you off? Would you -- unlike scaredy-cat me -- have said something if you saw this? I must know!

I know, right? I just don't get the blue plastic bag, either.

2011-05-18T20:20:00.002-04:00

______________________

On an unrelated note, thank you all so much for the kind words and well wishes regarding our new purchase. My heart, it is warmed.

As far as recent purchases go, this is WAY better than that five-pack of colored pens

2011-05-03T21:40:00.004-04:00

J is traveling tonight, which means I get to bust out my Crazy Murderer Deterrent Booby Traps. I do this whenever he travels, and yet...I kind of always know deep down that I'm relatively safe, nestled up in my apartment.

Going forward, however, my Crazy Murderer Deterrent Booby Traps shall grow more elaborate, and my fears even more insane. Look what we bought:

(House: side view)

(That...is not our stuff.)

We're moving in late June (in that blink-and-you-miss-it moment after school ends, but before camp begins), destination: northern NJ. Our house is perfect for us, or it will be after we redo the kitchen, which has literally -- LITERALLY -- not been updated since the Eisenhower Administration.

What this means is, when we're not working and hanging with the kids, J is taking care of brilliantly organizing and orchestrating every important thing, and I'm obsessing over things for which I want to punch myself in the face. Things like backsplashes, and drawer pulls, and...granite edge styles. (Bullnose! Bevel! Ogee! AM I IN A DR. SEUSS BOOK?) Also, Googling crucial home improvement tips, like "making sure your new house isn't possessed," and "how to paint a room with your spouse without filing for divorce."

I will desperately miss our neighborhood, friends, and apartment living for a whole mess of reasons, but I'm also beyond-words excited for our next step. (I'm in a glass case of emotion, truly.) We can't wait for the kids to each have their own room, a backyard in which to play (complete with new swingset!). And the space! Oh, sweet lord, THE SPACE.

The kids know we're moving, but I am a touch worried that when it becomes real, it'll actually hit them that they've left behind their friends, home, and nanny (which, don't even get me started, or I will cry about that -- again -- as she is amazing and has been with us for nearly five years, and OH, HERE COME THE TEARS AGAIN). Any of you who've done significant moves with small kids: do you have any advice/book suggestions/ideas for ways to cushion the impact, so to speak? And failing that, please feel free to share your favorite ways to booby trap your house to guard against intruders, and/or adjust to life in the suburbs. Lord knows I need all the help I can get. (Am I supposed to buy Juicy pants? I'm supposed to buy Juicy pants, aren't I.)

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Stop.

2011-04-28T22:26:00.001-04:00

So, we went away for Passover, and now we're back, and I never want to see another piece of matzah again, ever. Or at least until next year. Whatever. Let's talk about what's really important, which is my present Friday Night Lights fixation. As I mentioned in a prior post, I recently started the series from the beginning, during my journey to and from Seattle a few weeks back. It was so good that I stopped after a few episodes, realizing that J would love it, too. And lo, I got him hooked and now we're both obsessed. I am the Nancy to his Sid, only without all the heroin and murder.

The thing is, the show started, like, five years ago, and we keep having these in-depth discussions like the damn thing premiered last week. This has manifested itself in a number of embarrassing ways, not the least of which is my reverting to some sort of giggly, flushed adolescent whenever Tim Riggins appears onscreen. He is clearly the lovechild of Tom Brady and Jordan Catalano, and I'm basically about five steps away from redecorating with a taped-together magazine shrine of his visage, as I was wont to do with my crushes, circa late-'90s:

Another weird thing happening is that --by osmosis -- I'm immersing myself in the culture of fictional Dillon, Texas, where the show is based. I do not live in an area of the country where fancy cowboy boots are A Thing, but this show is making me think I not only need them, but can make them work flawlessly with a pantsuit. I have had actual dreams about such boots. Beautiful, haunting dreams.

I'm also quite taken with all things Coach Taylor, and want him to come to all my meetings from this day forward. I think he can really get people motivated to do literally anything. Maybe even to wash my car! Who knows? The possibilities are endless! Suck it, skydivers-holding-hands TEAMWORK POSTER. No one needs you anymore!

We've grown EMOTIONALLY INVESTED in the show, is what I'm saying, only we are VERY MANY YEARS too late to the party, and cannot plow through the episodes fast enough. Will Smash make it? What will be with Tim? How do I get Tami Taylor's hair? When will I stop despising Buddy Garrity? (People keep saying it's coming, but WHEN?) What in the name of all that is holy is up with Jason Street's weird vampire mask smile, and can they stop focusing on it so much because it makes me uncomfortable and I'm genuinely scared he's going to break though my TV, The Ring-style, and kill me in my sleep?

Clearly, I'm in need of help, having just devoted an entire blog post to a TV show that -- once again -- is...not new. So, let me just say this: if you haven't yet seen Friday Night Lights, watch it, obviously, and if you have, well, let's talk about it. And the purchase of the cowboy boots.

When...

2011-04-11T20:31:00.002-04:00

...I leave this fair city one day, it will be kicking and screaming.

Not for the food, not for the buildings, and not for the nightlife.

(Though all those things are great.)

But rather, because this glorious city is one where a man can wander around with a damned cat atop his head like so:

10 Things I Learned In Seattle

2011-04-04T23:09:00.000-04:00

(This past weekend, I visited Seattle for the first time ever, for the Nintendo Brand Ambassador Summit, to check out the Nintendo 3DS.)

1. Upon in-depth discussion with Y and Sam, the myriad magical thinking-filled steps I make myself take before and during a plane flight are perhaps a subject of their own post. Or cause for psychological evaluation. Perhaps both.

2. On the bright side, my lengthy plane trips over the weekend enabled me to start (and promptly fall in love with) Friday Night Lights. CALL ME, FAKE TV CHARACTER TIM RIGGINS. I'M FEELING VERY JORDAN CATALANO CIRCA 1995 ABOUT THIS WHOLE THING.

3. The Nintendo 3DS is mind-bogglingly cool, has an easy-to-use interface, amazing games (the Augmented Reality features will make your jaw drop), and I am incredibly thankful to both Nintendo and Brand About Town for the opportunity to fly out to Nintendo HQ and see the device in action, along with my own to take back home.

The trip was fantastic, and every detail was thought of and covered (down to Brand About Town accommodating my Sabbath Issues, and booking me on a late night, post-Sabbath flight home on Saturday). I was thrilled to go, and thrilled to come back home and show off the Nintendo 3DS to my family; I can't put it down! No, seriously, I can't, because then I won't get it back from my husband and son. (My son, btw, is under 6, so I just slide the 3D toggle down to 2D when he plays with it. Easy peasy.)

4. I just love my blog friends. (Not really something new learned in Seattle, but they were THERE in Seattle, so let's just go with it.)

This picture stolen from Y.

5. I am terrible at Zumba!

6. I love Zumba! (Thanks for taking me, Jen, Kerri, Sizzle, and Terrell!) I am signing up for a class here, like, yesterday, despite the aforementioned terribleness.

7. Nearly every man I saw in Seattle looked like the lovechild of Kurt Cobain and Sam Beam: NOTE: I AM NOT COMPLAINING. JUST OBSERVING.

8. Frasier's house is so pretty!

9. There is LITERALLY a grumpy old troll who lives under a bridge. Well, live and learn. Sorry for everything I said about you, Dora!

10. Seattle is magical, and I can't wait to go back.

Thanks again to Nintendo and Brand About Town for a fantastic weekend!

18 Questions and Comments About the Worst ComMEOWcial Ever Made (I hope you see what I did there!)

2011-03-24T21:46:00.006-04:00

If you follow me on Twitter, you know I had a full-on Episode last night, upon seeing what I have come to determine is the worst commercial ever made:

I caught it on TV, and promptly fell down a YouTube Wormhole of Horror, filled with repeat viewings, things I cannot unknow (the characters have actual names, and they are Sean and Lisa), and YouTube comments I cannot unsee ("Thanks for showing me my dream man/dream proposal!!!!!" "This made my uterus smile." "I now have a cupboard full of Fancy Feast......and I don't even have a cat!!! lol."

Obviously, I have some questions.

1. Really?

2. No, like, really? For rill, rill.

3. Okay, well. When did Shia LeBeouf get so old?

4. Why does his girlfriend think a spangled halter top and a spangled-yet-mumsy-cardigan pair well together?

5. Is she...YES. She's more excited to see the cat than her parents. That's...something.

6. When you bring a guy home for dinner to meet your parents, do you all refrain from speaking, and simply exchange Meaningful Looks Whilst Chewing? Is this a thing now?

7. Because, I mean, to me, that would be a weird date, and I say that having been ambushed into a date by a guy, driven across state lines, introduced to his family, and then serenaded by him with an original song entitled "Pleasure Me Orally."

8. TRUE STORY.

9. The way Shia is staring at either the mom or the cat is...well, it's unwholesome, is what it is. But WHICH ONE IS IT? Mystery! Or MEOWstery! (Okay, I'll stop now.)

10. I'm so glad Shia has redecorated that extra room as a Cat Room. It's both relatable and a clever use of space.

11. Painting it burnt orange is smart and necessary, since everyone knows that's the official Cat Favorite Color! (What?)

12. A goddamn fabric couch to accent Cat Room. Well, that's just straight-up nonsense.

13. OMG HE HUNG UP A PICTURE OF A CAT IN CAT ROOM. JUST IN CASE YOU WEREN'T SURE WHERE YOU WERE.

14. Why is she so surprised about Cat Room? Even if they weren't living together, you're telling me she NEVER came over? Never saw Cat Room in the making?

15. Fine. FINE. So we'll just SUPPOSE he closed the door while he was making Cat Room a reality. YOU wouldn't be weirded out if your significant other had a secret room he didn't let you enter? Are we in some crazypants cat-themed Merchant-Ivory adaptation?

16. WILL YOU MARRY US. OMFG.

17. Well, at least we know who Shia was creepily ogling before.

18. Worst. Commercial. Ever.

On Purim costumes, sexy giraffes, and swimming lessons

2011-03-22T22:29:00.000-04:00

This weekend, we celebrated one of my favorite Jewlidays, Purim, which is sometimes referred to as "the Jewish Halloween." Some of you may recall that in years past, I SLAVED over my kids costumes; Lady Gaga, Baby Hippie, Elvis and Tiny Bret Michaels don't pull themselves together, after all. (Okay, the DJ Lance thing wasn't too difficult.)

This year was different; I found myself faced with two very opinionated kids who wanted nothing to do with my plans. (Wee Black Swan and the old man from Up, if you were curious, though I hadn't fully fleshed out either idea, and -- OH FINE, I HAD DIAGRAMS, OKAY? THEY INVOLVED TULLE AND A SHIT TON OF BALLOONS, RESPECTIVELY!) No, they wanted the most typical costumes in

the history of ever: Spiderman and a ballerina.

Obviously, I relented, because I am not a crazy person, at least not in this particular case. I know this is just the beginning of one of the more bittersweet parts of parenthood, where I can no longer foist my tastes (Purim-related, or otherwise) on them, because they're developing their own. And I'll try to stand back and let them do so until Lo decides in 10 years she wants to be a Sexy Giraffe, or whatever, and then God help her.

In other news, we've just started swimming lessons. Well, not WE; J and I both know how to swim fairly well, although only one of us still occasionally talks about some years-old camp award/certificate that set forth just how good a swimmer they were. J. But, the children! The children are learning to swim. T goes to the big kid class on Monday afternoons, but Lo is still itty-bitty, and needs a parent in the water with her. The two of us, therefore, go to the parent-toddler swim class on Sunday morning. It's something I treasure, honestly, because it's rare -- since I work full-time -- that I get to to any "mommy and me" type class with my kids, and the class is really great. It is ALSO its own special brand of hell, because I get to awkwardly sing and play in a suspiciously warm pool, in front of strangers, all while wearing a hideous matronly swimsuit with a slippery child alternating between clinging to my waist and flinging herself into the water, and really. REALLY. If this wasn't a Fear Factor challenge back in the day, it damn well should've been.

I realize I haven't posted pictures of my kids in a while, so I'll close out this kid-centric post with a few recent shots. They're getting rather BIG, right? It's not just me?What is HAPPENING?

Elsewhere...

2011-03-15T21:40:00.000-04:00

Here's some other stuff I've recently written:

~ A Cheaper Version of Latisse? I INVESTIGATE.

~ The Pleated Skirt Conundrum

~ My Perennial Fashion Week Favorite: Phillip Lim

~ My New Fashion Blog Obsession: Uber Chic for Cheap

~ Every Time I Say "Clarisonic," I Start Singing the Teen Witch Rap

~ Eyeliner for my Fellow Brown-Eyed Girls (Sha la la la la la la!)

~ Pacifica Body Butter in Tuscan Blood Orange: My favorite hand cream

~ Perfect Red Lipstick. Period. Oh, and it costs a dollar.

~ My Trick for the Tail-End-of-Winter-Blues (OH, IT COULD BE A THING)

An Easy, Gorgeous Bun in Three Steps: a how-to from (and for) the hairstyle-impaired

2011-03-07T21:50:00.005-05:00

I'm hairstyle-impaired. It's a shame, really, because I have long, straight hair, which, I gather, is good for Doing Stuff With, and all I really do with it is...let it sit there. Most days, it's pulled back in a boring ponytail, and sometimes, when I get REALLY CRAZY, I twist the sides back with bobby pins, like so:

Very, very exciting and creative, right? I am the Lady Gaga of hairstyZZZZZZZZZZZZZ IT IS SO VERY BORING. I AM IN R.E.M. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Like I said, hairstyle-impaired. It's not like I don't WANT to learn how to do fun stuff with my hair--I'm just inevitably hopeless at it. I am, therefore, really, REALLY excited to share with you a cool, EASY bun that I figured out all by myself.

All you need is:

Hair.
Long, beautiful hair.
Shining, gleaming, streami--okay, enough of that.
One hair elastic.
Some sort of hair...cream...stuff. You know, the stuff. Like, something to make it smooth? But also stay in place? See? You know. I told you you'd know! I used this.
Working knowledge of how to make a regular braid.
Love.

Step 1: Work the hair product through your hair. It lets your hair know who's boss, and projects an air of confidence that makes you feel like you know what you're doing. "Why, yes, I use hair product. This is the product I use. On my hair." -- Me, to my reflection.

Step 2: Pull your hair back like you're about to make a low ponytail, but -- PLOT TWIST -- instead, of doing that, start tightly braiding it. Do you know how hard it is to take a clear picture of your hair from behind, while holding said hair, and NOT also accidentally getting your pajama-clad butt in the frame? This was my Everest.

Step 3: Once you braid down to the bottom, carefully start twisting the braid. Is that my thumb? WHY YES, IT IS MY THUMB. Twist it (the braid, not my thumb) until it wraps around itself, and secure it with the hair elastic...

Voila! A chic bun with an almost woven effect, that makes you look like a grown-up ballerina lady and/or someone who knows a lot more about hair than you actually do:

Academy Awards Fashion Pop Quiz 2011: Basically, it involves a lot of tinfoil.

2011-02-28T22:22:00.000-05:00

I love the Oscars. Rarely do they live up to my expectations, but I can't NOT watch, you know? One of my favorite parts, obviously, is the Red Carpet. My SUPERfavorite part, though, is assessing what, precisely, a number of our favorite stars were thinking when they pulled together their looks for the event.

Last year, I expressed my deep, complex, and clearly very important feelings about this via a photo pop quiz. After seeing a few looks during the pre-show coverage last night, I decided to reprise that concept this year.

Here we go! Which poorly-dressed Academy Award attendees am I in the following five shots?

Eyes on your own paper!

I've Already Taken The Liberty of Creating A Twibbon, But No Pressure.

2011-02-23T22:12:00.003-05:00

I was the child who -- when reading about the arduous journeys of sailors at the turn of the century -- noted that she hadn't had oranges in a few weeks, and became convinced she was coming down with scurvy. This pretty much set the tone for my (totally proportionate) reactions to any and all potential medical matters in life. Pregnancy-induced iron deficiency? I'M GOING TO DEVELOP PICA. Peeling radiator? OMG IT'S PROBABLY LEAD PAINT WE'RE ALL GONNA DIEEEEEEEE.

I just got the results of my bloodwork from my annual (by which I mean "five years since the last") physical, and my doctor pronounced them "unremarkable," which, yes, is the actual word he used. (When you think about it, however, you truly couldn't ask for a better adjective in this context.)

"Just one thing," he said, "your Vitamin D levels are severely below optimal levels." "What's optimal?" I asked him, and he told me "around 50 whatevers." NOTE: he didn't actually say "whatevers," but I have a tendency to tune out when medical people mention amounts of stuff, so it could've been "millileters," or it could've been "kilowatts" and I would have literally had no clue. "Sure, sounds appropriate," is what I would've said, regardless. This is one of the many reasons I would have made a stunningly horrific doctor. I at least had the presence of mind to ask what my Vitamin D level actually WAS, and he told me "18." EIGHTEEN WHATEVERS, OPTIMAL BEING 50 WHATEVERS.

I promptly freaked out and asked him what I needed to do. "You'll be fine. You should drink more milk [ha!], and need to take some Vitamin D supplements," he assured me. I promised him I'd pick some up as soon as we hung up.

As soon as we hung up, I proceeded to Google "Vitamin D deficiency." I then had to Google "what do rickets look like," and came up with a new diet plan, called the "The Google Image Search of Diseases Diet." (NO STEALSIES, you guys!) I promptly became convinced I had mild rickets. I fell headfirst down the Disease Search Wormhole at that point, and -- in repeatedly poking my leg to see if I had the dreaded Softening of the Bones --may have actually caused a different Vitamin D deficiency side effect, Bone Tenderness. ("Bone Tenderness" will be my band's next single, by the way.)

I decided it would be a perfect time to grab lunch, and took a walk outside (in the glorious, Vitamin-D-giving sunlight). I pulled myself together, and knew what I had to do next. RAISE AWARENESS.

My Vitamin D Deficiency Awareness Twibbon is a very special and glorious rainbow, because all the good colors are taken, and I didn't want to offend, for instance, Lance Armstrong by using solely yellow. I don't know, he could rally, like, a troop of NYC bike messengers to come after me, and those sons of bitches are crazy enough as it is. I say that having nearly been repeatedly been mowed down by them WHILE WALKING ON THE SIDEWALK LIKE A NORMAL PERSON WALKING ON A SIDEWALK. Yes, my Vitamin D Deficiency Awareness Twibbon is basically the Technicolor Dreamcoat of Twibbons. So, there you have it: you're aware, which is pretty much the most important thing. (I'll pick up my new vitamins ANY day now.*)

Twitter Party forthcoming.

*I picked them up!

Five Random Things

2011-02-10T22:59:00.000-05:00

1. Thank you, as always, for your fantastic advice, this time, regarding the crib thing. What made it especially fantastic is that your comments were pretty much UNANIMOUS, which just makes things that much easier. So: crib until she attempts to leave it herself/asks for a bed. Got it.

2. Last week, I had the pleasure of having drinks and dinner (cheese, nuts and pickled vegetables is dinner, right?) with Holly and Deb, which was exactly as lovely as you would imagine. And while you're imagining, please factor in that (a) Deb brought us SOMETHING SHE BAKED. Delicious figgy challah,, warm and fresh from her oven, COULD YOU DIE? (Well, not so much "die," as want to "eat it." I'm hair-splitting, I suppose.); and (b) our bartender looked, acted and dressed exactly like Justin Timberlake, which just lent an air of delightful absurdity to the evening.

3. Hipster Ariel is killing me softly. LOVE.

4. You know what else is killing me, but like, for real? This scene from a commercial for a local storage facility. Every time, I'm surprised by it, somehow, and the horror hits me anew. EVERY TIME.

5. Tomorrow, I have my first physical in what is, by my count, FIVE YEARS. I think. I've been to see medical professionals for, like, strep tests, exciting pleurisy adventures, and appointments related to childbirth/That General Area of Things, but I have not gone for a head-to-toe, scarypants physical in eons. I've been putting it off for ages (obviously) because I am like a child. So, I've been telling myself that I read Esquire -- in which Dr. Oz writes many articles -- so I FEEL like I've been in good hands. Eat nuts! Salmon! Drink red wine! Work out! ON IT, DR. OZ. I decided, though, that 2011 is the year I become Responsible About The Kind of Stuff, fear of tongue depressors be damned. This appointment has been looming for over a month, which is juuuuust the right amount of time to have completely made myself Rip Torn-level crazy.

OhgodI'msoscaredHOLDME.

Elsewhere...

2011-02-07T21:22:00.001-05:00

~ A solution to the "chapped lips, still want pretty lipcolor" problem

~ Where to find long-sleeved winter dresses: one of life's great mysteries, SOLVED

~ The layering turtleneck: a wardrobe staple (on the cheap!)

~ Tinted moisturizer for people who hate tinted moisturizer

~The best flat boots. Ever.

~ You need this eyeliner

~ Perfectly applied cream blush in four easy steps

Crib Notes

2011-01-23T22:03:00.001-05:00

Yes, yes, long absence, life = busy, blah di blah, no one cares.

FIRST OF ALL: Whoa, was I wrong about the deodorant thing. Apparently many of you love the advanced solid, which, although it -- to me -- appears to be crafted of lies, apparently is amazing! Live and learn, I suppose.

Moving along to other topics about which I clearly know nothing, what age is too old to still have your child in a crib?

I ask, because, well, some decisions in life get made for you. (I'm not pregnant! Hear me out here:) Like, say, if you decide to have two children literally two years apart, your older child is going to have to transfer from a crib to a bed fairly quickly, so the baby has a place to sleep. And you'll be lucky, in that he comes to this decision on his own, and with minimal fuss, but still--point is, you didn't really need to THINK about it, you know?

Then there are the other types of decisions, the ones where you get reality slapped into you, and you have to really start weighing things, and making lists of pros and cons. Like, say, if you happen to caaaaaasually mention in conversation with a relative that the "baby" -- your daughter, now two-and-a-half -- is still sleeping in a crib, and you get a HORRIFIED, BOSCH-PAINTING-LIKE TWISTED LOOK OF HORROR in return.

I had not really seen this as a big deal. Apparently it..is?

The thing is, Lo is...spirited. She reminds me a lot of my brother Goose, when he was little. Goose, who was known around our neighborhood as "Trouble," or alternately, "that perpetually naked child riding around on the Big Wheel." (As you can imagine, he loves being reminded of this.) She's a kid who gets syrup in her hair seven seconds after it's washed, then proceeds to remove her pants and do somersaults in the dining room whilst holding a princess doll. I am not making any of this up. See?

Me: J, am I making any part of that sentence up?
J: You forgot the part where she's singing The Backyardigans theme song while she's doing the somersaults.
Me: Right.

So, yeah. Add the singing to that, and you get a general idea of things. We're...skittish, and that's putting it charitably. I think our hesitance may in part be due to our experience with giving her a bed trial period this summer on vacation, or as I refer to it, "the week we all got woken up at basically 4 AM every day -- FOR THE DAY -- by the Rooster Child and sort of wanted to die, or at the very least, mainline espresso." Coupled with that, she likes sleeping in a crib. Whenever we return from weekends away, you can almost SEE the look of relief on her wee face as she swan dives into it.

So, what to do? On one hand, I know she's HAPPY in the crib, and we're happy not getting woken up when farmhands do, but on the other hand, I don't want to turn around and find myself the unwitting star of some freak-ass TLC Show called, like, Crib Moms or something, where moms...keep their teens in cribs. While hoarding coupons. Or something.

When did you move your kid(s) to a bed? Any and all advice is welcome!

Secret & Lies

2011-01-06T22:06:00.001-05:00

I have spent the better part of the week being annoyed with a stick of deodorant.

"Now Metalia," you're probably saying to yourself, "Surely there are more important things going on in your life and the world at large, such that you realize how stupid it is to care about deodorant." And you're right, which is exactly WHY I'm choosing to care focus on the deodorant! If I don't, I'll start obsessing over why starlings are just DROPPING FROM THE DAMN SKY like misfires in Angry Birds, or why THOUSANDS OF FISH ARE SIMULTANEOUSLY DYING AS THOUGH SHREK FARTED IN A POND. So it's either focus on the deodorant, or spend my evenings constructing a doomsday shelter out of what appear to be my most abundant resources: Anthropologie cardigans, and shoes. Accordingly, it will be whimsical, yet shoddy.

I am doomed.

Deodorant it is!

I am very particular about deodorant. When I was in fourth grade, wearing deodorant -- regardless of whether it was yet necessary for you, personally -- was arbitrarily determined to be a Very Cool Thing To Do, and a subcategory of this Very Cool Thing To Do was that you had to use aerosol spray. You needed to be as obvious as possible about your Deodorant-Wearing Status, I guess, and basically, what we had there was 18 little girls -- who probably smelled perfectly fine -- constantly whipping out huge spray cans of deodorant between classes, world-weary expressions on their faces. "Oh, man. Here I go. Gotta spray the deodorant. No choice. Such is life," our world-weary expressions said. Like we weren't SECRETLY OVERJOYED to be among the deodorized. And like we'd just run back-to-back marathons, and hadn't been...sitting still, learning how to find Botswana on a map. SO much physical exertion!!

A few years later, I realized I loathed spray deodorant, (so cold! so sticky! so always-accidentally-up-my-nose-y!) and there were other options out there. After some trial and error, I realized a few things: anything in the "powder" genre makes me want to choke/barf, gel never truly dries, and ultimately, I really, really prefer solids over any other form.

Which brings me to my point.

If you were scouting out a new deodorant, and you saw the phrase "advanced solid" on the front, wouldn't you assume it was, in fact, solid? A normal, straight-up solid, advanced, perhaps, only in the degree of Magical Deodorant Protection it offered?

And not, say, an amorphous mushblob encased in hard plastic? The base of which you had to CLICK CLICK CLICK to access (which was, I'm sure, super enjoyable for others to hear at 5:50 in the goddamn morning, when you were attempting to apply it, like, for instance, your sleeping husband, and no, this isn't getting hyper-specific, this is just a normal run-of-the-mill example for everybody, ever, I don't know what you're talking about)? And then you had to smoosh the "advanced solid" out through the squiggly holes in the plastic top, in a manner reminiscent of the Play-Doh Fun Factory? Only instead of playfully crafting dough faces and spaghetti, you're stuck sort of...smearing deodorant goo around on your person? And you wonder precisely just what the hell happened?

In what way is this an advancement? In what way is this a solid?

I have been deceived, is what I'm saying, and I will not stand for it. I mean, I will, because I can't find the receipt, but you know what I'm saying, which is that INSIDE, I'm very busy, not standing for it. SONS OF SCOTLAND, I AM WILLIAM WALLACE, and all that.

Seriously--Is there ANYONE who likes this type of deodorant? What form do you use? And yes, I'm really asking, but I'm doing it for all of us, because: anything to keep from thinking about the dead birds. And fish. (OMG AND NOW CRABS? The Mayans were right all along!)

Elsewhere...

2011-01-04T21:06:00.000-05:00

Other things I've written lately:

~ Universally flattering lip gloss....for $1.79.

~ Detangler for grown-ups.

~ FOUND: Perfect legging jeans.

~ My new obsession: Patterned (yet still office-appropriate!) tights.

~ New year, new beauty/fashion resolutions

~ How to make a salad that eats like a meal.

Snow Day!

2010-12-27T21:40:00.002-05:00

I love snow. I love winter in New York. I love my little family.
HAPPINESS TRIFECTA.

Me Want Food: Perfect Blizzard Soup

2010-12-26T21:17:00.003-05:00

We have certain food traditions in our home. One of the most important ones is "Snow Day = hot chocolate with real whipped cream in the morning, then soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch." Those are the rules of Snow Day, and they are unflinchingly rigid.

While I love, love, LOVE meat-based soups and stews, we can't mix meat and dairy (thanks, Judaism!) and to me, the grilled cheese is an immutable component of Snow Day Lunch. HOWEVAH, I don't want a cream-based soup, either, because then it's like, Dairy Overload, you know? (Is there even such a thing? I'm going to assume yes.)

As a result, I'm always on the lookout for hearty, grilled-cheese-friendly soups that don't involve meat, or a metric ton of dairy products, and I tell you, that is NOT easily done. (I know there's always tomato soup, but I was looking to branch out.)

With a blizzard swirling outside my window as we speak, I'm happy to announce I found a winner today in this Tuscan Vegetable Soup. It has very little fat and a metric ton of veggies, but still manages to be hearty and full of flavor. (Bonus: It's vegan!) We kept eating it throughout the afternoon, all "this is SO GOOD." (Because -- yes -- we are assholes who compliment our own cooking.) I made some adjustments, and I'll tell you now it required a bunch of chopping/prep work, but not much else. (We also put the kids to work, draining beans, shaking in spices and running the escarole through the salad spinner, and it became a total family activity, to boot.) It also cooks really quickly, in about an hour from the time the first ingredient hits the pot.

In the event you were looking for the perfect grilled cheese accompaniment during the first snowstorm of the season (WE ARE HAVING THUNDERSNOW UP IN HERE, OMG. THUNDERSNOW!), I highly recommend this one.

TUSCAN VEGETABLE SOUP
(adapted from Family Suppers by Jeff Nathan; my comments/adjustments appear in italics)

1/3 cup olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
6 medium carrots, chopped (I only had five; I don't think it mattered)
1/4 head green cabbage, chopped (we did half a head)
3 celery ribs, chopped
1/2 head escarole, tripped, coarsely chopped (I did use the escarole, but I feel like spinach/any dark leaf lettuce would easily substitute)
1 cup tomato paste (I used a 6 oz. can; again, it was fine)
1 Tablespoon dried oregano
6 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 quarts vegetable broth (if you DID want to make this meat-based, by all means, use beef/chicken stock!)
Two 15- to 19-oz cans cannellini (white kidney) beans, drained and rinsed (I couldn't find white kidney beans; I found navy beans -- which are, ironically, white -- and used those instead.)
1 medium zucchini, chopped
1/2 cup fresh basil (I didn't have fresh; instead used four of those frozen...cube ones.)
Salt and black pepper to taste
I also added 1/4 cup stelline in the last ten minutes of cooking (itty bitty star-shaped pasta. Orzo, pastina, etc. would also work well)

Step 1: Heat oil in the soup pot over medium heat. Toss in the onions, celery, carrots, cabbage and escarole. Cook, stirring often, until vegetables soften. (I covered the pot; this took about 20 minutes.)

Step 2: Stir in tomato paste, oregano, and garlic. Continue stirring until vegetables are all tender (about 10 more minutes). Pour in the broth, bring to a boil, and stir in the beans, zucchini, and basil.

Step 3: Reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until zucchini is tender, and soup is slightly thickened (about 20 minutes; stir in the wee pasta about 10 minutes after adding the zucchini, if you want to).

Season with salt and pepper.

Enjoy! (Preferably with a grilled Edam/cheddar mix -on-sourdough rye, but no pressure!)

Confessions

2010-12-23T21:49:00.002-05:00

As is my custom, with Christmas coming, and so many of you off celebrating with your families, I like to take advantage of the temporary proverbial ghost town of the internet and confess a series of random and shameful things:

1. A Christmas Story is not my favorite Christmas movie. I...don't even really like it, so much. It's...okay? I guess? I feel like this is technically something that you'd call blasphemy, but given that the holiday isn't of my faith, I'll just call it "probably an unpopular opinion." For my money ("For my money?" Who am I? My grandfather? Classy chassis! Hold the wire! Swell!), the best Christmas movies are National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation ("GRACE?" "THE BLESSSSSSING"), and Love Actually.

2. Until I was...well, into the low double digits, age-wise, I believed that an "oil change" involved....

~ wait for it ~

Going to a new gas station, and trying a different brand of gas than you usually did. I'm not certain why I conflated oil and gas, or why I felt brand loyalty was such an integral part of fueling one's car. And the whole formality of an official oil (well, gas) change? I have no idea what was wrong with me. I will, however, attempt to blame this on never pumping my own gas, as I grew up in New Jersey.

3. I will go through entire days without drinking a drop of water.

4. I routinely count on my hands and get butt-clenchingly nervous when I have to calculate, say, a delivery person's tip on the fly.

5. There are times when I'm using my iPhone in my own home on 3G, and feel like toggling down to turn on the WiFi signal (thereby speeding up my phone's performance) is just too much work. This is my new benchmark for laziness in life, and I'm hard-pressed to think of what could possibly surpass it.

6. I cannot pronounce the word "mobile." I genuinely never know when (and/or whether) it's "moble" or "mo-bile" or "mo-beel." It comes up more often then you'd think.

7. Due to seeing a very dark animated version of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi as a child, I have numerous lifelong (apparently) cobra-related fears. Fears that are totally valid here in my New York apartment, which is clearly similar in so many ways to a remote bungalow in an Indian jungle (the story's setting). The latest has me vigorously shaking out my boots before putting them on. You know, JUST IN CASE.

Anything ridiculous you'd like to confess? Go for it!

(And a very Merry Christmas to everyone celebrating!)

My Friendship Dealbreaker

2010-12-20T22:32:00.002-05:00

* I assure you, this is not about you. The person with whom I experienced this situation doesn't read this (or any?) blog. (And I apologize in advance for my uncharacteristic Ranty McRantypantsedness.)

In general, and with the specific exception of my New York Syndrome, I have a pretty long fuse. (Heh.) As I get older, I find myself gaining patience in most areas of my life, but...losing it in others. It's not necessarily a bad thing, not entirely.

To wit: at the grand old age of 30, I've decided that -- to me -- the singlemost hurtful behavior, the one that rips my heart up, is social climbing. That's my dealbreaker, ladies, and I swear to you: I would genuinely rather someone be a straight-up jerk to me than use me; hanging out with me when it's a good time for them to do so, when there's no one better. I really do try to think the best of people, and this type of person knows it, preys on that, and exploits it. They know you'll make up an excuse in your mind for why they did [Thing X], in order to explain it away to yourself. And then finally, when you DO ultimately pick up on it (and you will, at some point), you have a "KEYSER SOZE!" moment, only instead of shattering a coffee cup in slow motion, you just get mad at yourself, in retrospect.

The thing with this behavior, the part that's so knife-twisty, is that it says, indirectly, "you're unimportant. I catalog people. You are less valuable than [person X]," but it hides behind a smile. And while this behavior enrages me, what gets me more? Is that whoever is doing it to you thinks so low of you that they're counting on you not to say anything. Maybe they even think you haven't picked up on it, which is even more insulting. "You sweetheart. You marshmallow," that smile says. That smile is a pat on the head, dripping with condescension. Good girl. And you get filed away, cataloged right back into the neat little bottom-drawer file folder in her mind where she keeps you.

And let me be clear: the "sooo high school" label for this (and other, equally awful) behavior is dismissive, inaccurate, and diminishes its (very real) existence. I assure you, certain people are horrible throughout their lives; it's not endemic to one brief four-year period.

While I do wish I understood what makes people think it's okay to act like this, I'm ultimately okay with not getting it. I'm okay with not confronting it (because it's a particular type of deep-seated meanness, to the point of habit, that isn't going to change), and I'm okay with walking away. Like I said: it's my friendship dealbreaker.

What's yours? I'm curious.

The words "free" and "amazing" are together way too rarely for my tastes.

2010-12-15T21:20:00.001-05:00

My new favorite iPhone app (which, as noted in the title, is FREE), is Instagram. Not that you asked, but whatever. Remember how Flickr used to be? Like, really interactive? Instagram reminds me a little bit of that. The easy-ass interface and gorgeous filters are particularly compelling, too. I'm not a particularly talented photographer (especially with a cameraphone), but I've found the pictures I've been taking lately and playing around with in Instagram look...well, much better than anything I'm usually capable of, that's for damn sure.

(No one is paying me to say, this, obviously. Or asking me to say this. Or forcing me at gunpoint/iPhone hostage-taking to say this. Or--you catch my drift.)

Here are a few Instagram shots I took around the city in the past week:

Bryant Park ice skating rink at dusk

Grand Central Terminal, evening rush, aka, Pickpocket n' Pervert Happy Hour

Park Avenue, from a cab that smelled like feet and misery.

Puffy lone cloud - view from my office.

Sunrise over Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.

I love winter in New York. Now, go download Instagram and let's be Instafriends, or Friendagrams,, or whatever the hell it's likely called on there. (I am, shockingly, "Metalia.")

Elsewhere...

2010-12-13T21:22:00.000-05:00

Other places you can find me:

~ At UrbanMoms, talking about my obsession with my new wristlet, and in so doing, post a picture of my actual child inside my bag. It makes sense, I swear. (Yes, I said wristlet, WHAT OF IT.)

~ Also at UrbanMoms, boldly (?) admitting to my new love of a very, very trashy perfume.

~ At Curvy Girl Guide, sharing my recipe for Garlic Parmesan Spaghetti Squash. (There's white wine up in there, too. If that's the type of thing that might sway you to try spaghetti squash.)

~ Are you Canadian, and forever feeling left out of assorted blog contests giveaways? I feel you, Canadians. Allow me to attempt to make it up to you with a fantastic giveaway at UrbanMoms, where a $100 gift card to Old Navy is up for grabs. (I mean, I also posted about my holiday season style wish list in that post, but I'm going to assume you care more about said gift card.)

I shouldn't have access to cosmetics. Or my daughter's plastic tiara. OR MOVIES.

2010-12-08T21:30:00.002-05:00

Because...I see Black Swan.

I enjoy-slash-am-haunted-by-slash-possibly-need-to-rewatch Black Swan.

I love the costumes and makeup in Black Swan.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out Some Stuff That Happened in the Movie.

I know what I need to do next.

I start out looking like this. That is to say, like a street urchin. I was just running, if it's any excuse. That is a fantastic Giants shirt I'm wearing. Nothing to do with anything, I'm just saying.

I then pull out this crap. Toner, followed by powder. Red lip liner, red lipstick. Black eyeliner on eyes and then over red lips.

Hair-in-tight-bun time!

Ta da! Black Swan! Or...Juggalo.

DAMMIT.

DEFINITELY Juggalo.

Photo credit: FX/It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Which you should be watching. In addition to The League.

Ask a Jew 7: Festival of Lights Edition!

2010-12-06T00:36:00.003-05:00

Happy Chanukah! Here's an Ask a Jew post, devoted to questions I've received about the holiday:

What is the proper spelling of the holiday? Why so many spellings? Does it matter?

This is the most popular question, it seems. "Chanukah" and "Hanukkah" seem to be the most common spellings, and the variations are based on the fact that it's a transliterated Hebrew word. There's absolutely no right or wrong spelling, so just go with whichever you prefer!

Can I have a brief rundown of what the holiday is about? How is the menorah a part of it?

Sure! Chanukah's primary theme -- as has been drilled into my head from kindergarten -- is that of "hidden miracles." (As opposed to big, flashy sea-splitting ones. For instance.) The story itself addresses the Jews being oppressed in ancient times by an evil Greek leader named Antiochus (I'm sorry, Greek friends! I love feta! I love c! I love YOU!), who forbade the practice of Judaism, pushed for complete assimilation, killed a lot of Jews, and took over their Temple. A rebellion by a Jewish resistance group named the Maccabees was successful, and they ultimately regained control of the Temple. At the time of the re-dedication of the Temple, the Jews were preparing to light the menorah, which required pure oil, however, there was only one small flask of pure oil, barely enough to even last one day. Through a HIDDEN MIRACLE, the tiny drop of oil stayed lit for eight days and nights. (Not unlike me in college, but that's a story for another day. Ah, memories. Of tequila.) We celebrate the successful revolt and the miracle of the oil on Chanukah by lighting menorahs of our own for eight nights (adding one additional candle each successive night).

Do you give gifts all eight days? Who do you give gifts to?

This varies from family to family, in terms of size and number of gifts, but it's generally kid-focused. (J and I got new knives and a new stockpot as our gift to ourselves. WE ARE EXCITING.) Growing up, my parents gave one small gift to each of us, each night (there were three of us; it adds up fast), like a Matchbox car, or new markers. Then on the eighth night, we'd get a big present (like a dollhouse in my case, or a trampoline for my brothers). We also always had a few annual family Chanukah parties, where we gave and received a bunch of gifts, too.

J and I do this, essentially, also. We get each of the kids one or two bigger gifts, and smaller things for the other nights. Again, we have family parties at which they -- the resident great-grandchildren, niece/nephew, grandchildren, etc. -- are spoiled beyond comprehension, and OH GOD WHERE SHALL I PUT THIS LITTLE MERMAID VANITY TABLE IN MY APARTMENT. SOMEONE HELP.

Bearing in mind the amazing surplus of gifts, something we've instituted at the end of Chanukah is that they each pick one gift each from their haul, and we go to a toy drop for kids in need. We do a toy cleanup, too, and give away the old stuff to make room for the new stuff, and (I hope) let them learn a little bit about being cognizant and appreciative for what they have, and helping other kids.

What is the significance of playing dreidel?

A dreidel is a small spinning top, and the key component of an eponymous game played on Chanukah. As mentioned above, Jewish practices were outlawed during the time of the Chanukah story, so in order to secretly carry on Jewish teachings, kids would get together to learn, and bring the dreidels with them. If a Greek officer came by, they'd whip out the dreidels and start playing, pretending they'd been doing that the whole time. It has since been turned into a cute game that a lot of families play on Chanukah.

We have a laser dreidel that plays "Axel F," which is, I'm pretty sure, exactly what the Macabees were envisioning for the future when they were fighting for our right to continue as a people.

What is the percentage of families that almost set their hair on fire with the candles?

HIGH.

Minutes after J captured this Norman Rockwell-esque tableau last year, I -- no joke -- nearly singed the back of my head while turning around. It happens EVERY YEAR, at least a few times. To us, anyway. Well. Me.

Are there special foods/eating rules for Hanukkah, like there seem to be with some other Jewish holidays?

There are, thankfully, no eating rules, like on Passover, but there are most definitely special foods. In order to commemorate the miracle with the oil, we -- no joke -- eat stuff that's been fried in oil. O, HEAVENS. THIS RELIGION. SUCH HARDSHIP! THE TORTURE! Common "oil" foods include fried jelly-filled (or caramel cream-filled) donuts, and latkes (potato pancakes).

What is your latke recipe?

Here you go, adapted from Kosher By Design:

2 lbs. peeled potatoes (the recipe calls for Yukon gold or russet, but it work fine with regular potatoes)
1 medium onion, quartered
4 medium scallions
1 large egg
1.5 teaspoons salt
black pepper to taste
1 cup oil (recipe recommends peanut oiil; I used canola to no ill effects)

~NOTE: You really need a food processor for this recipe~

Grate potatoes in food processor, using that top...disc thing. Remove half of the grated potatoes to a large bowl. Remove top...disc thing, and replace with the fitted blade, the one that goes in the bottom and can sever your digits. Add the onions and scallions, and process until smooth.

Smoosh out any liquid that has gathered in the bowl of grated potatoes, and then add the smooth potato/scallion/onion mixture, and toss with the egg, salt and pepper until well blended.

Heat the oil in a large pan until hot, but not smoking. While it's heating up, line a tin/large plate with paper towels. Carefully add the mixture in heaping tablespoons to the pan, frying until golden, and then flipping until the other side is golden as well. Remove latkes to drain on paper towel-lined tin.

Enjoy!

How do we merge Christmas and Chanukah without offending anyone?Our family is mixed and everyone goes to FIL on Christmas morning. I'd like to incorporate something Chanukah-y but have absolutely no idea what would be appropriate.

Is it disrespectful to have a menorah in your home if you are not Jewish?

These two questions are from different people, but are kind of related, so I will do my best to answer them together. Also: although I consider myself an Orthodox Jew, I tend to skew pretty modern in my views. With that in mind, let me attempt to answer these.

I hope (HOPE) I've given a basic overview of the basics of the holiday. In terms of the overarching respect issue, and how to incorporate the holiday, to me, it all depends on the dynamic in your family. Some families are rigid about not melding the two holidays, and some families have open, relaxed "Chrismukkah" get-togethers. Without knowing the details of your family, I would err wayyyyy on the side of caution, so as not to offend, but that's just me. My suggestion would be to -- rather than attempt to involve any tangible Chanukah objects, which might seem like an actual, physical imposition to someone who's not expecting it -- maybe see if you can talk about some of its messages, in a casual way. Perhaps something about standing up for what you believe is right, and the concept of small miracles. While they're Chanukah hallmarks, they're also universal themes, I think, and ones that I would hope wouldn't cause any stress/offense.

In terms of bringing a menorah into one's own home if they're not Jewish, my feeling is this: the menorah isn't a sacred object, per se, and it's more of a symbol, embodying the aforementioned concepts of the holiday. If you like what the holiday (and thereby the menorah) represents, then do whatever makes you and your family happy and comfortable.

(Did I answer that stuff okay? OH GOD I HOPE SO. By all means, weigh in in the comments. I (and, I'm sure, the question-askers) would love to hear your experiences and thoughts.

Oh! And as always. let me give some form of my standard “Ask a Jew” disclaimer: I am not an expert in Judaism, nor do I claim to be perfect in my observance. This is my understanding and my interpretation. Yours may be different, and we can all learn something from each other and be right, in our own ways. In fact, I’d LOVE to hear if you know of a different explanation for anything I've addressed above, but please, please be courteous.

Happy Holidays to all!

Earlier Ask a Jew posts:

1. The Original (miscellaneous questions)
2. Ask a Jew: Episode 2 (more miscellaneous questions)
3. Ask a Jew Episode 3: Jewish Weddings (One of my favorite posts I've written. Am I allowed to say that?)
4. Ask a Jew 4: Sabbath edition
5. Ask a Jew 5: Totally Random Questions Edition
6. Ask a Jew: UNLEAVENED (Passover questions)

New Gigs, Old Gigs, and a Question

2010-12-02T21:06:00.002-05:00

I just started a few new gigs, about which I'm seriously excited:

I have a style column at Urban Moms; here's my first post about my five fashion muses.

I'm also writing over at Curvy Girl Guide, where I have a few posts up already; here's one about cute workout gear on the cheap, and another with my absolute favorite recipe for roasted cauliflower and/or broccoli.

This week, you can also find me at BlogHer, talking about my favorite fancy beauty steals (perfect stocking stuffers/holiday gifts!), all $25 and under.

On a wholly unrelated note, I haven't done an Ask A Jew post in a while, and given the time of year, does anyone have any Chanukah-specific questions? (Or is this one of those holidays that everyone has all figured out?) If so, let me know in the comments! Either way, I will be here eating ALL OF THE LATKES, EVER. ALL OF THEM.

Have a great weekend!

And the Winner is...

2010-12-01T22:36:00.002-05:00

I loved reading all the entries in my Fresh Perfume Giveaway; hearing what other people are thankful for gives me that warm, fuzzy, Muppet-y feeling. Without further ado, the randomly-selected winner is #15...

And #15 is...Mimi!

Congratulations, Mimi! Email me your address, and the perfume will be on its way!

New York Syndrome, or VIVE LE FLORG!

2010-11-29T23:21:00.007-05:00

J and I were walking to our building's front door tonight when we spotted an unshaven scarecrow of a man wearing a dark puffer coat, what appeared to be capri-length sweatpants, and bedroom slippers, striding along from the opposite direction. I gave J a sidelong glance which, in Couple Eye Speak, said "clearly, this man is to be avoided," and J, in turn, responded with a look that said "indeed. We should give him a wide berth. Also, we should make that soup again soon. The one with the root vegetables. It was really good. Did you finish that book you were reading?"

What? We've been together a long time. You pick up these skills.

We then observed that Florg -- I have dubbed him Florg -- wasn't ambling on down the road to Cray-Craytown, but rather, following us into the building. Splendid! Florg lives here, it seems. The elevator -- for which we were all waiting -- hadn't yet arrived, so I made a quick stop at our mailbox to grab our stuff. As I was LITERALLY INCHES FROM THE ARRIVING ELEVATOR WHOSE DOOR HAD NOT YET OPENED, this happened:

GIRLIE, you guys. It is at this point important to note that: (a) again, the elevator was actively not there yet; (b) I was holding my mail, not reading it, but that's neither here nor there; (c) I am thrilled that I remembered this picture of me existed because it is wholly accurate, in terms of my expression; and (d) J was talking to our doorman, and thus oblivious to my plight. ("Go up without me," he said. "I'll be up in a minute," he said.)

As I stood there, flummoxed, Florg fixed his gaze upon me once more. "Are you coming or what?" he growled at me, as we both stood there. Next to each other. Both waiting for the same elevator. Meanie!

Considering that we live on the third floor, I probably could've just said, "no thanks! I'll walk!" But I have New York Syndrome, which is a totally real, and not-at-all made up thing, wherein I am generally a normal, calm and even-keeled kind of person, but when a stranger in this fair city behaves in a mean and/or untoward manner with me, I turn into an aggressive, Hulk-like "OH, YOU WANT TO GO? COME ON! LET'S GO!!!" type person. (I've had too many strange pervert dongs pressed against my back on the subway, you guys. Too many! One of those dongs broke this camels back. Or something.)

I defiantly told Florg that yes, I was going to be taking the elevator. Because I like to tempt fate, I told him this with the same snotty, slow, sarcastically patient tone I used to use on my parents when they inquired about the difference between Lugz and Doc Martens. I got in with him, my head held high. "I certainly showed him!" I proudly told myself, because clearly this was very, very important. I made a big show of looking through my mail.

It was then that I realized I had forgotten to press the button for my floor, and I was stuck in the elevator with Florg until we reached his. I then had to OVER-ACT, like I'd meant to do this, and --oh lord, I don't even know. Stupid karma. I took the elevator back downstairs and J was like, "Oh thank God, I thought he'd kidnapped you."

While I obviously need to spend the rest of my days here avoiding Florg, I am, in one way, relieved. Every apartment building I've ever lived in has at LEAST one known crazy/crotchety person. I hadn't mentioned this, but, well, we hadn't found this building's crazy inhabitant in the few months we've lived here, and I was starting to get nervous. After all, if you can't spot the crazy person in the room, then the crazy person is you. And so: VIVE LE FLORG!

Fresh Perfume Giveaway: Because I feel like it, that's why.

2010-11-23T22:22:00.005-05:00

This post is in no way sponsored. Well, unless you count me as a sponsor.

I've had a thing for Fresh beauty products for a while now. Their Strawberry Flowers perfume is one of my two favorites right now, their mascaras are top-notch, and I am a bit obsessed with their (ridiculously priced) Brown Sugar Body Scrub. I was browsing in Sephora the other day when a new (to me?) perfume from their line caught my eye: Citron de Vigne. I sprayed it on the tester strip, and fell in love. Even better, it came in a convenient rollerball! SOLD. Usually I'd try it out to see how it worked on ME, but I was already wearing my perfume (Strawberry Flowers!), and I was in a rush.

(You see where this is going, right?)

I then brought it home, applied it the next morning, and promptly died.

It may be a lovely scent, but it doesn't work with my skin chemistry, for whatever reason. And obviously, my receipt has disappeared.

(You continue to see where this is going, right?)

My friends, I am hereby giving away a verrrrry barely used Fresh Citron de Vigne rollerball perfume! Valued at $18.50! Perfect stocking stuffer for a friend, or for you! Yes, you! Here's what it looks like (isn't the package adorable?) The bobby pin is for scale, not, like, still life artistic purposes:

Not scale-y ENOUGH, you say? What's that? You want another picture, possibly involving my thumb, so as to better contextualize the bottle's size? HOKAY:

The scent -- assuming it works for you -- really is lovely and complex. Fresh's website describes it as "champagne-inspired," with a "heart note of pinot accord -- comprised of bergamot, dark almond, musk, white sandalwood and rose -- combined with bubbling citrus top notes and an earthy base."

So, um, let's make up some rules, or something. Given the upcoming holiday, leave a comment between now and Monday, November 29 at 11:59 PM E.S.T., telling me something for which you're thankful. Yes. Let's go with that! It could be anything, really, but no duplicate comments, please. I'll select a winner at random.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You GUYS. I'm Writing a Book.*

2010-11-19T00:02:00.000-05:00

Exciting news, everybody!

I'm writing a book.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Metalia, didn't you say you were going to write a book a while ago? Where did I put my car keys? And why didn't anyone tell me how good Hot & Spicy Cheez-Its were? And to all these things, I say, yes, in the pantry, probably, and OMG I KNOW. Am I projecting a bit? Perhaps I am! But I'm just so excited!

I think it was Benjamin Franklin who once said "We know not from whence inspiration comes, only that we must grap it mightily as though with the jaws of a lion when it striketh."

I just made that up, honestly, but it sounds like something he would say, you know? I--well, here, it looks much more official now. You'll see what I mean, I'm sure.

So, the book. Oh, my friends, the WHIRLWHIND! The LIGHTNING CLAP THAT WAS!

There I was, strolling the aisles of my bookstore, attempting to find something new, and it seemed that everywhere I turned, there was another memoir about someone doing SOMEthing for a year. Living biblically for a year! Living like Oprah for a year! Not shopping for a year! Living with subway dwellers for a year! Again, I made that one up, but you just KNOW some hipster right now is all "YES! And I shall call it From PBR to Panhandling for Nickels: My Year with the Mole People."

And like that, my inner book found ME. My friends: I have decided to write a book about spending a year reading books by people who spend a year doing something.

Each of the books, I've realized, follow a similar formula. How hard could it be? OBSERVE:

Step 1: Pick random-ass, deceptively unique-yet-wholly-relatable thing to write about.

Step 2: Write about how great it is, and how your soul NEEDED this.

Step 3: Uh oh! Crisis of some sort! Will you finish on schedule? Do you need to? DO you WANT to? Is it worth [insert sacrifice here]?

Step 4: RALLY, YO! You get it done in in time!

Step 5: Talk about the life lessons you've gained from this yearlong experience.

Obviously, my book about how I spent a year reading books about other people who spent a year doing something and then writing a book about it is going to be huge, AND also super easy to write. So much so that I'm not really working on the book part right now (it'll basically write itself! I'm sure!) and have instead turned my focus to the cover, since, as we all know, there is inevitably a significant amount of judgment levied upon it.

My first attempt was terrible.

My second attempt was much better, mainly because I stole J's glasses, and ditched the pajamas.

Perfect.

I'm coming for you, New York Times Best-Seller list!

*Lies!

Bookish

2010-11-16T00:17:00.004-05:00

God only knows what I did to deserve this, but both of my kids love books. We read a lot together, and in addition to being heartwarming as hell, it reassures me that those incessant '80s literacy commercials were not in vain. "See, Captain OG Readmore, anthropomorphic puppet cat? I'm still reading! I DIDN'T LET YOU DOWN, GOOD SIR!" is an actual thing I have occasionally thought. And said out loud to my husband. And -- upon seeing his confusion and possible alarm -- sighed, exasperatedly trying to convince him that the good captain was NOT an imaginary friend, but a real (well, cartoon?), reading-obsessed and possibly drunk cat in maritime getup. ("Books were his catnip, J! DON'T YOU SEE?") Very little about the situation made sense, but damned if he wasn't real, is what I'm saying.

I was reading Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus to the kids on Sunday, and my friend -- who was visiting -- gave me a look of surprise. "That is NOT how the pigeon sounds," she said. "My pigeon voice is much more squeaky." I had never really thought about this before; in my mind the pigeon voice just IS, and what it is, it seems, is a Joe Pesci/Gilbert Gottfried hybrid.

I then had a Usual Suspects moment, reeling around at the bookshelf, as it hit me: I have unwittingly assigned extremely specific and distinct celebrity (and "celebrity") voices to the main characters in pretty much every single book I read to my kids: Pinkalicious, for instance, sounds like Snooki, Sam I Am of Green Eggs and Ham fame sounds like Jon Lovitz, and his unnamed counterpart, like Mr. Snuffleupagus. Amelia Bedelia is Carol Kane, in anything. The Caps for Sale peddler is Al Pacino in Scarface. And the little boy in The Giving Tree sounds like whatever an awful, terrible sociopath-in-training sounds like, because that is exactly what he is. (Stop making me read that book, kids! It is the worst!)

I'm fervently hoping this practice is a lot more common than I suspect it to be. Feel free to reassure me. If you need me, I'll be over here, reading The Berenstain Bears, and making Mama Bear sound like Jackée from 227 (a la Jen Haley). And -- if we're being honest -- watching old Captain OG Readmore clips.

Make Your Own Barrettes in Five Easy Steps: I AM THE NEW MARTHA! (I am NOT the new Martha)

2010-11-10T22:39:00.003-05:00

I am not terribly crafty.

I mean, I suppose I CAN be, if we’re talking the occasional Machiavelli-lite scheme, but if we’re talking Etsy-type stuff, or anything involving advanced use of sewing implements, I am most definitely not your girl. I ADMIRE those people –deeply — but I do not possess the talent to become one of them.

Once I HAD a little girl, however, I picked up on one useful craft skill out of necessity. She’s blessed with thick, wavy hair that requires a hair accessory of some sort to keep it off her face at all times, lest she careen into the coffee table, blinded by the curls. Or get some sort of sticky food in it literally five minutes after she comes out of the bath. (EVERY! DAMN! TIME!) The first time I went to pick up some cute fabric-covered barrettes from her, I nearly went into sticker shock. EIGHT DOLLARS for one barrette? Like, for serious? Does the barrette do any light housework, or cooking? (Note: I live in New York, so STOP IT RIGHT NOW with your taunts of, like, 12-cent fabric-covered barrettes, wherever you are.) I inspected the barrette up close and realized it could not be simpler to make myself. And so I practiced, and lo! I now possess basically one craft-related skill, which I’d like to share with you:

Step 1: Gather Your Supplies.
To make a barrette, you’ll need five things, all of which are really cheap, and easily found almost anywhere: A glue gun, salon-type hair clips, ribbon (duh), a scissor, and some adhesive-backed velcro (we’ll get to that in a bit).

Step 2: Measure Once -- If That -- And Then Cut Once. That’s How That Saying Goes, Right?

Wrap your barrette with the ribbon to “measure” how much you’ll need to cover it. (Spoiler alert: These clips are generally all the same size, and if you WANT to be all precise about it, just know that you’ll need a smidgen over five inches. See?)

Step 3: Fire up Glue Gun, Burn Self.
Okay! You have some cut ribbon, a barrette, and a searingly hot, metal-tipped glue gun hot enough to leave a scar. You’re ready! Evenly secure the ribbon between the “jaws” of the clip, flip it over, and carefully (PLEASE?!) glue it in place.

Continue gluing your way all the way around, working slowly, making sure that the ribbon is even, and that you haven’t bought yourself a trip to the burn ward.

Step Four: Velcro: My secret weapon.
At this point, you’ll have an adorable barrette, which is technically ready for a test-drive. However, I am a wealth of Heloise-ish tips, gleaned from years of reading too many parenting, house, and style magazines. One tip that stuck with me (and who KNOWS where I picked it up) is to tack on a tiny bit of velcro (the rough, “hooked” side) to the inside of barrette to keep it from slipping out of hair. The adhesive-backed stuff makes this a snap. I hope everyone enjoys this macro close-up photo involving my thumb!

Step 5: Marvel at Your Amazing Skills! (And...my hair? If you want? I'm SWF'ing Emma Stone's color, basically. CALL ME, EMMA! I JUST WANT TO TALK.)

Congratulations! You now have a craft to call your own, can now save yourself some cash money on adorable barrettes AND you have a fall-back, homemade baby gift, to boot. (You can make and give a bunch of barrettes, either as the gift itself, or as an accessory to a larger one, with a few clipped on to the wrapping.)

Originally posted at Aiming Low.

Searching for a new insult?

2010-11-08T21:55:00.000-05:00

Look no further!

I live in the best building.

Staying in the Lines

2010-11-03T22:02:00.003-04:00

I wasn't allowed to use coloring books as a kid; my Mom forbade them. I used to DIE for coloring books, obviously. At home, I'd take the covers of Disney videos and TRACE THEM IN PEN, and then staple them together to make my own coloring books. It was piteous, you guys. When I would have playdates at other people's houses, my friends would be all, "let's watch You Can't Do That on Television! Let's make up a dance! Let's go sneak some candy while my au pair is having Quiet Time with my dad!" (HAND TO GOD, that last one happened, for real.) And I would quietly yet urgently inquire as to the existence of coloring books in their household, and to the extent present, their whereabouts.

And then eat the candy.

(I mean, come on.)

My friends would inevitably graciously supply coloring books, and we'd each intently focus on staying in the lines on our respective pages. Blissfully, I'd sit there, sugar dots in one hand, Burnt Orange crayon in the other, as I colored Ariel's hair just so, and plotted the careful shading I would employ on her fish scale...bottom...thing. (Zoological term.)

It's now 20-ish years later, and here I sit with my own kids, passing them the coloring books that their grandmother -- MY MOTHER -- got for them.

Parenting is so weird.

My mom is an artist, and her goal was to have us be creative. She felt the coloring books stifled creativity (oh, Mom!), and that attempting to control that one little thing would help us along that path. As a parent now, even though I totally joke about the whole thing with her -- I kind of get it. I get having a specific aim for your kids, and wanting (even the illusion of) control; of some of it, any of it. And in certain ways, I actually think I'm stricter than my own parents were, overall, but sitting here, I'm hard-pressed to identify any one Parent Thing of mine that's, you know, No Coloring Books-level in its specificity of focus and goal. I have rules, obviously, and (admittedly generic) hopes for the quality of my kids' lives and how they conduct themselves, but...well, they're just that. I...hmm. Maybe I need a Comically Stringent Parent Rule of my own. Since I'm Crazy Rambling Reminiscing Lady at this point, did your parents have any comically stringent rules? Do you have any of your own? Let's talk about YOU now. I'll be over here, getting the playful shadows on Dora's face just right.

Venn Diagrams and Fantasy Football Bring ALL the Boys to the Yard

2010-11-01T22:37:00.001-04:00

Me Want Food: Sesame Noodles in Five Easy Steps

2010-10-26T23:02:00.000-04:00

So, here's the thing. I cook. A LOT. A big part of Jewish culture is sharing meals with friends, and consequently, I spend a large portion of time searching for and refining great, easy recipes. I rarely share them here, because, well, there are literally thousands of actual food blogs. But I got to thinking that perhaps the occasional easy -- and I do mean easy -- recipe post was something people might (might?) like. Maybe? I don't know! My track record of Sticking With Things here is spotty at best, but I'm excited about this. To kick this new endeavor off, I'd like to share the following dish (originally posted over at Aiming Low); it's one of my favorite sides to make, ever, and pretty much everyone with whom I've shared the recipe has loved it.

While it was well-received when I posted it there, things took a turn for the hilarious when a series of random commenters took great pains to tell me how ugly my thumbs were. I really hadn't KNOWN I had ugly thumbs until the post, but honestly, they're right-- I do have ugly thumbs. So, if you missed it over there, enjoy it here! Come for the recipe, stay for the...ugly thumb pictures:

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

I don’t know about you, but I’m one of those people who not only enjoys, but PREFERS her Chinese food cold, and straight from the fridge. Possibly eaten literally IN the fridge, door open, and with one of my kids’ Backyardigans forks. Because it was the closest utensil, you see.

“Elegance is leaaaaaarned….”

ANYway, I recently came across a recipe for cold sesame noodles that has many things going for it. It’s SIMPLE. It has six ingredients, it’s easy to memorize, and it takes maybe 15 minutes to make (that includes cooking time for the noodles). It’s delicious, and it tastes even better the next day. SCORE. Here it is, in five steps:

(Actual recipe appears below.)

Step 1: Boil a box of pasta. Note that it’s difficult to get a good picture of BOILING WATER.

Step 2: While the pasta is cooking, pull out your main ingredients (soy sauce, sugar, sesame oil), and shake ‘em up. NO, that’s not one of my son’s Silly Bandz that I found on the table, absentmindedly put on, and promptly forgot about until after I took this picture. I don’t even know what the hell you’re saying.

Step 3: Note that in your attempts to artistically capture your Magical Cooking Experience, you’ve effed up your counters. Because you are a winner.

Step 4: Drain pasta, rinse, toss with sauce…*

…And throw in some chopped scallions and sesame seeds. I don’t know how many. Just….SOME, okay? The rules are, THERE ARE NO RULES. Go nuts.

Step 5: Toss it all up/shake it up in the plastic bag (lazy cook’s preferred method of choice, ahoy!) and let sit in the fridge for a few hours to chill. DEVOUR!

Cold Sesame Noodles
Adapted from The Kosher Palette (a cookbook beloved by both me and Ali.)
1 lb. spaghetti-type noodles (I find thin linguini works best)
1/2 cup sesame oil
1/2 cup soy sauce (I sometimes add an extra 1/4 cup; totally depends on your taste/soy sauce brand)
1/3 cup sugar
3-5 scallions, chopped
Sesame seeds, to taste (I use about 1/4 cup)
________________
Boil water. Add pasta, stirring every so often so it doesn’t get clumpy. (Appetizing!) While pasta is cooking, shake up/thoroughly mix together soy sauce, sesame oil, and sugar. Chop scallions.
When pasta is done, drain, and rinse. Toss together with the sauce, scallions, and sesame seeds until well-blended. Let sit in fridge for a few hours until cool. Enjoy!

*Because I have a tiny fridge, I do this in a Ziploc bag, and try to smoosh out most of the air. It takes up less real estate in the refrigerator, and really lets the sauce soak into the pasta.

I may frame this.

2010-10-22T17:05:00.001-04:00

I tweeted this earlier this week, but you know what? It's never not a good time to bear this in mind:

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Earworms

2010-10-18T22:11:00.002-04:00

I can find no cohesive theme that allows this list to make any sort of sense, but regardless, here's what's running through my head of late:

1. Angel Taylor - "Sex on Fire" (Kings of Leon cover; this was the best version I could find here, but an "official" version of her rendition is up on iTunes.)

2. Rachael Yamagata - "Duet" (Awesome graphics on this fake...video...thing, no?If I had access to this song, a video program, and YouTube at the age of 14, I probably would've come up with this.)

3. Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros - "Home" (This just feels like it belongs in a Quentin Tarantino movie, doesn't it?)

4. The Go! Team - "The Power Is On" (So WHAT that I first heard it on on an NFL commercial? It makes me want to run and/or punch someone in the face. In a...good way?)

5. Kanye West - "Power" (Oh, Kanye. I wish I could quit you. This SNL version was amazing.)

6. Glee - "Toxic" (Britney Spears cover. While I firmly believe that the character of Mr. Schue ruins everything good, ever, I begrudgingly admit I don't hate him as much here.)

And what's stuck in your brain lately? Mama needs some new music. (Note: I am Mama in this scenario.) As you can see, I like...everything.

The Hunger Games Rap, and other stuff

2010-10-14T19:07:00.003-04:00

Elsewhere this week...

Were you thinking that what the world was missing was a rap about The Hunger Games? No? Hmm. Well, regardless, *I* thought it was, and I guest-posted at MamaPop yesterday, sharing it there. I'm... well, I'm at a point where I genuinely believe I could take Justin Bieber in a freestyle rap battle. i AM COMING FOR YOU, BIEBER.

I am scared of my freezer. Or, more specifically, using it for planned-ahead meal storage bidness. Naturally, I consulted our genius readers at Aiming Low, and the comments are chock-full of brilliant advice and guidance for how to become A Freezer Person.

I assess some favorite eye creams at BlogHer Style.

Have a fantastic weekend!

The Ladies of Mad Men Pop Quiz!

2010-10-11T22:07:00.003-04:00

Every year around this time, I drag myself to my closet, and face facts: it's fall, for real this time, and I need to pack away my light summer dresses and airy skirts, and lug out the Chunky Wool Pile. Oh, Chunky Wool Pile. So we meet again. And I try -- really, I do -- to stay focused on the task at hand, but instead of diligently swapping out this suit for that, and tearfully boxing up my sandals, I just start TRYING EVERYTHING ON. And what's worse, is I, um, play dress up. And not "let's go to a fancy party" dress up, which is at least somewhat normal, but rather, "let's dress like actual TV characters!" dress up. What I am, it must be acknowledged, is a master of procrastination.

I started pulling out a tweed dress, packed away since last spring, and realized it was absurdly Mad Men. I folded up a tie-collar shirt, and realized it, too, was insanely Mad Men. After mentioning my activities on Twitter, a few people asked for photographic evidence. Who am I to deny anyone? Particularly when it means even MORE procrastination from the drudgery of the task at hand?

J and I, obviously, had our standard conversation where I explained to him that I need a photo shoot for something really, really stupid, and he was all, "right, but how is this helping you with the whole cleaning out your closet thing, which you started to do two hours ago? With much enthusiasm, might I add?" Thankfully, I had the old "well, YOU DREW A GIANT J ON YOUR MATTRESS FOR CRISSAKES, we all DO THINGS OTHERS DON'T UNDERSTAND, J" ace in the hole to get him to acquiesce. Strategy! I am basically Sun Tzu, is what I'm saying.

And so, I bring you...The Ladies of Mad Men Pop Quiz! I have been known to do this before,. and I find the pop quiz aspect really brings something to the table, and by something, I mean "nothing, really, I just like the idea of quizzes about stupid things."

Go on, guess who I am in the following pictures:

Eyes on your own paper!

Oh, come on. You try to come up with a more reasonable explanation.

2010-10-05T21:41:00.003-04:00

Scene: An Ad Pitch at The Cheez-It Offices

Merle, the Bitter Ad Exec: So, let me set the scene for you, Chad. Show you what I've come up with.

Chad, the Rich Cheez-It Executive: [fiddles with iPhone] Sure, whatever, all ears!

MTBAE: There's a scientist-type guy, and you know he's a science guy because he's wearing a white lab coat.

CTRCIE: OOOOEEEEE, you wily little pig! My angry birds shall get your wooden lair with th--er, uh...loving this so far!

MTBAE: Also the science guy is talking to a giant wheel of cheese.

CTRCIE: SOLID GOLD.

MTBAE: However, no one will know what he's saying, or have any idea as to the intended focus and goal of the commercial, because there will be a bright red sign, smack-dab in the middle of the screen that says MATURATION ROOM in itty-bitty letters. And no one, anywhere, ever, has used that phrase, but because it is written in such itty-bitty letters, it looks like it's a sign for an entirely different and much dirtier type of room. And lo, the sign shall distract them, and they'll be all, "WAIIIIIT a minute, what does that say? HAHAHAHAAAAAAA," and you know what, Chad? You know what? I am doing this to eff with you because you SLEPT WITH MY WIFE, CHAD! YOU SPOILED BASTARD CHEEZ-IT SCION SON OF A BITCH! I KNOW IT WAS YOU! Estelle was my world! And you took her, just like you take everything ! You've had everything handed to you! Everything! *sobs*

CTRCIE: [not paying attention] Sure, dude! Awesome! Run with it!

~Fin~

Annnnnnnnd, that's how we got this. I mean, I am assuming. WHAT OTHER EXPLANATION COULD THERE BE?

(Um, I'm not the only one who saw a different word at first glance, right? Right?)

Elsewhere...

2010-10-03T14:46:00.001-04:00

Thank you all so much for the sweet birthday wishes. Here's what else I was up to last week:

Addressing some ridiculous beauty products over at BlogHer Style

Talking about my unfortunate Dubious Superpower at Aiming Low

and finally, this...

Likely the first and last time anything I have ever done will be mentioned in a Smart Spending article (Baby Gaga FTW!)

Thirty

2010-09-26T08:43:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, I loved, loved, LOVED The Baby-sitter's Club series in what -- in retrospect -- was probably a obsessive manner.

Practice my "s"s to mimic Stacey's? I don't know what the hell you're talking about.

There are a ton of details I recall about it, details such as "minutiae of Claudia's outfits" (which, among others, probably take up valuable space where "parallel parking skills" and "the '12' multiplication table" should reside), but there's one specific thing I remember above all else: I distinctly recall reading about how they were in seventh (and then eighth) grade, and thinking, "man. Seventh grade. SEVENTH GRADE. That's SO GROWN UP." I held it up in my mind as the avatar of (young) adulthood.

Suddenly, I found myself IN seventh grade, and realized that -- unlike Claudia's fetching striped legging and spatter-painted parrot shirt combo -- it wasn't as sophisticated as I had imagined it to be. I pressed on, with 20 as the new bar of maturity, and soon enough found myself there, making incredibly unwise decisions, often involving amaretto. Also, public cry-fights. "Well, 30, then," I told myself. That's when you're really a grown-up."

: : : : :

I know there's been a lot of talk lately about life lists, and -- without any judgment whatsoever about your feelings on the subject -- I have to say it's not for me. It's ironic, considering I spend untold hours writing and rewriting To-Do lists, even doing the ol' add-already-completed-item-to-list-for-express-purpose-of-crossing-it-off, but the thought of compiling a full-on list of what I want to accomplish in my life makes me (me) feel squicky. Had I written one in seventh grade, about what future me was to accomplish, it likely would've involved the Olympics (I was a gymnast), and becoming a --wait for it -- ROLLER COASTER DESIGNER.

Had I written it at 20, it would have involved law school, staying in NYC proper, and pursuing the decidedly wrong person for me. I had no plan for where I ended up, and no blueprint for what I consider to be a good, fulfilling life. It's not to say I don't make proactive choices; it's just that I can't see myself jotting down my wishes, because honestly, I'm not so sure we (I) always want what we (I) say and think we (I) want. I -- as a lot of people do -- made a series of decisions in my early twenties (some excellent, some not-so-excellent, and some likely inconsequential), that somehow led me to here: a successful career in a field that I never would've considered earlier in life, living in a town I never would've thought I'd live in, a fantastic marriage to a man who is unequivocally the right person for me, and two amazing kids who inspire me, challenge me, and constantly teach me how to be a better mom. It's my life, and while it's not the life I imagined, or would've plotted out on a list, it's absolutely the life I want, and am so thankful to have.

: : : : :

Today I turn 30, and as it turns out, once again, I was wrong about this age being the one where you feel like a grown-up. I still feel like me. I have no idea what the next decades hold for me, but I now know enough to know that I'll probably never feel Like A Grown Up. The older I get, the more I realize I don't know. What I do know, though, is to just enjoy it as it comes, sans bullet-pointed blueprint, and to simply be grateful for all the good that's in my life.

And I am.

What I've Been Up To (Prominently Featuring Diabeetus Cat and the Zombie Apocalypse)

2010-09-21T00:15:00.001-04:00

1. I just changed jobs. It's within the same company, but still. Now, granted, you may have noticed that I studiously avoid making any other comment about my workplace here other than that I...have a place where I work (and I genuinely love my job), so this will likely have no impact on you whatsoever. (I could be a firefighter, for all you know! A Supreme Court Judge! A high-class escort! A firefighting escort judge!) However, I will say that I've worked in the same division for eight (!!!) years, so the change is a big one for me, but something that I decided was important for my career (as a CSI? Marine Biologist? Real World producer? NO ONE KNOWS.), and I'm excited/nervous, which is, I suppose, par for the course with these types of things. A few nerves are good, right?

2. The fall Jewish holidays, man. I can't catch my breath. We went to my parents for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur -- coming home in between -- and then we're off to my in-laws for the first days of Succot, also known as "that holiday with the outdoor booths" later this week. Then we come back home (huzzah!) for Simchat Torah, also known as "that holiday with all the drinking." We are a festive people when we're not fasting.

3. My birthday is coming up on Sunday, and I turn 30. I love the idea of being 30. I cannot remember the last time I was this excited for a birthday, crow's feet be damned. (Maybe the year I turned 10? When I was all, "double digits, man. I am so sophistica--You WILL be mine this year, American-Girls-doll-named-Samantha"? I think then.)

4. I'm developing the world's largest ladycrush on Emma Stone. After going to see The Town (I KNOW, I'm a glutton for freak-ass scary nun-robber-related punishment) and finding it sold out, we opted instead for Easy A, as it possessed the key quality of "playing at the same time, and not being Devil." She's adorable! That raspy voice! That pretty auburn hair! She is my new Lindsay Lohan (who I used to adore to pieces). (Sorry, Emily; at long last, I've finally given up on our girl.) Call me, Emma! I want to talk about your hair and also eat some pie! You seem fun! And/or as if you'd like to eat some pie!

5. Against my better judgment, I started rereading The Passage (relatedly: Am in a reading funk. What to read next? Help!) and consequently, I have spent more time than I care to admit lately thinking about how I'd handle a zombie apocalypse. Not Helping At All: The Walking Dead previews on AMC during Mad Men. I don't want to give away all of my strategies, but my multi-part plan involves both hiding in my file cabinet and subsequently ACTING like a zombie despite still retaining my human form. I know. I don't know why I haven't been given an MacArthur Fellowship award, either. It's all politics, I'm sure.

6. Getting me through this stressful time is Diabeetus Cat. Oh, Diabeetus Cat, how you make me laugh!

7. I honestly just had to google whether or not Wilford Brimley is still alive. (He is! Good for you, old boy.) I have trouble remembering with that guy.

8. See also: Carol Channing, Brian Dennehy, George Hamilton. AND I KNOW THERE ARE MORE. I just can't even REMEMBER the people whose, er, life status I CANNOT REMEMBER.

Why I'm Angry at Ben Affleck

2010-09-14T23:22:00.000-04:00

1. The previews for The Town.

2. Specifically, the ghoul-faced nuns.

2. Okay, SOLELY the ghoul-faced nuns. I really do want to see the movie, but for the ghoul-faced nuns. Whither the nuns, Affleck?

3. The fact that I need to walk through a tunnel in Grand Central Terminal early each morning while basically half-asleep, and every day -- EVERY DAY -- I completely forget that the ghoul faced-nuns are there, on my left, and then I get startled. And since I'm so tired I'm essentially in REM sleep while I'm walking by, it's that much more frightening. OH ALSO A SECOND POSTER APPEARS 10 FEET LATER ON THE OTHER SIDE.

4. La la la la laaaaaa OH GOOD LORD WHYYYYYYY.

OH NOOOOO, THE SECOND ONE, NOOOOO.

5. EVERY DAY, PEOPLE.

6. I mean, surely there are OTHER aspects of the film to showcase, amirite?

7. The fact that a few weeks ago, J showed me a new zip-up jacket thing he got for football season, and asked me if I liked it, and I replied, "Was it hard for you emotionally when you knocked on Will's door, and it turned out he was gone, because he had to go see about a girl?" And I was SO PROUD of my clever joke (because the jacket looked like something Ben Affleck's Good Will Hunting character, Chuckie, would wear, you see), and then I had to EXPLAIN my reference, and yes, said reference is about 13 years too late, but it was AWESOME, and you would understand, had you seen the jacket thing.

8. Okay, that's not really Ben Affleck's fault, per se, but he's involved, so here that shall stay.

9. And while we're at it: I will continue to be creeped out by the animal cracker scene in Armageddon for the rest of my days.

10. THIS, less than a block away from my office, spotted earlier today. STOP THE MADNESS, AFFLECK.

Scenes from a vacation (PHOTO BARRAGE OMG.)

2010-09-02T22:28:00.000-04:00

He always gets me with that last one. Well played, kid.

2010-08-25T22:36:00.000-04:00

Inspired by a conversation I had on Twitter the other night, behold, I bring you...

A Brief List of Bedtime-Delaying Excuses Recently Utilized By My Son, Bedtime Delaying Master.

I'm thirsty.

This cup isn't a good cup.

What time can I get up?

I need you to tuck me in.

Tuck me in like a caterpillar.

Why are my ears so wiggly?

My teeth aren't sleepy yet.

I have to peeeee!

I guess I didn't have to pee.

I don't think it's dark yet.

Can I play with my bubble gun in the morning?

I wasn't making noise, I was being a lying-down robot.

Why do pirates have to go on treasure hunts?

I love you, Mommy! Can you come back and give me 100 kisses?
* * * * *
Okay, hit me, you all. What are your kid's/kids' most creative excuses (and can they top "my teeth aren't sleepy yet")?

The Scarlet Letter, J, and El Capitan Loco: A love story.

2010-08-19T06:01:00.002-04:00

I can't say with absolute certainty, but it's been my experience that with rare exception, each couple out there is made up of a composed, rational, grounded half, and then a more out-there, and uh...spontaneous one. If you would ask anyone who knows us as a couple, I'd pretty much guarantee you that we would be pegged thusly:

El Capitán Loco evidently mixes up her diacritical marks. Because she is LOCO!

Dear, sweet J. So organized and sane. Kind, calm, thoughtful, maker of rational decisions, and prompt put-er away-er of pants. (I HAVE A PROBLEM, OKAY?)

All of which is what made my discovery last night that much more surprising. Going in, you'll have to know three things:

THING ONE: We have separate mattresses.

Not separate BEDS, mind you, just separate mattresses, but placed together in a king frame. (Just--whatever, just go with it, okay?)

THING TWO: J loves his mattress.

Despite the two mattresses being 100% identical, and purchased on the same day from the same place, he remains intractably convinced of his mattress' superiority, as if mine is made of porcupine quills, Nazis, and sharpened sticks.

THING THREE: I rarely change the sheets.

NOTA BENE: They get CHANGED, mind you, weekly. Just usually not by me. (As noted above, I have enough trouble hanging up my damned suit pants.)

So now that you're armed with these key facts, let's proceed.

As it happened, last night, I was -- for the first time since we moved -- changing our sheets. As I made my way around toward J's side, I noticed something on the side of his mattress:

Why, yes. Yes, that is a GIANT "J" ON THE SIDE OF THE MATTRESS IN RED SHARPIE, completely visible when the blanket is pulled back. My first thought was that our incompetent movers had done it. It wouldn't have been out of the realm of possibility, considering that they -- among other, lesser transgressions -- forgot to put our couch legs back on, said "oh, prolly just 15 more minutes, Mrs. Lady!" when what they truly meant was "THREE MORE HOURS, MRS. LADY. THREE ADDITIONAL HOURS. WE ARE LIARS, TERRIBLE, SLOW MOVERS, AND WE ALSO CALL YOU 'MRS. LADY,' AND THINK THAT'S OKAY," and in a stunning finale, literally trapped me in the living room with an alarmingly large amount of boxes, causing me to have to sort of hurl myself over and through them, like a contestant on Double Dare. (Keep being awesome, Ben Hur Movers!) But I asked J about it, and he matter-of-factly told me that no, he had written the "J" on there, so as to make sure he got the right mattress after the move.

Naturally, I was brimming with questions. Such as "What the effing crap, J? Who ARE you? Banksy?" and "I'm sorry, why couldn't it be on the INNER SIDE of the mattress? What about a subtle DOT on the label? Did I go into some fugue state wherein I, too, had marked my mattress like a CRAZY PERSON, such that the only way -- the ONLY WAY -- to distinguish the mattresses, and to ensure their proper return to their rightful owners (sleepers?) was by tagging each with one's initial, like a graffiti artist? WHAT KIND OF WORLD IS THIS?"

And you should have SEEN him, shrugging it off, just talking about the need for the (large, red, permanent) letter "J," like it was some completely logical decision he had to make, and everyone was just going around, doing this. I'm pretty sure -- if given the chance -- he'd do it again, if it would mean getting the proper mattress. The whole episode was completely random and bizarre, and I'd like to be more annoyed, but--well, you guys. This must be what it's like to live with ME. Walking into your dining room and being full-on ambushed by your significant other wearing an actual lampshade on her head, asking you to take a series of pictures of her in it, as if everyone was just going around, doing this. Uh, for instance. He goes along, always helping my with my assorted ludicrous projects, no matter how ludicrous said projects may be. And so, although This Whole Letter J Thing is ridiculous and crazy, I'm going to embrace the ridiculous and crazy in him. Lord knows I owe him one in that department, for a change.

(And obviously, I want to know if my yin-yang couple theory is right. Where do you and your significant other fall in the Normal/El Capitán Loco equation?)

Why yes, we ARE available for parties.

2010-08-15T18:58:00.000-04:00

I feel like I have 75 things I need/want to discuss, but for now, I'm simply going to share this picture from this past winter, recovered from a thought-lost-yet-now-found memory card. I don't know exactly what was going on here, but I do remember that it was -- though this may be hard to believe -- NOT posed; I'd been adjusting my boot, J had been fiddling with the guitar, and my brother just said, "hey guys! strike a pose!" and then this happened. All I know is that I have -- at long last -- found my album cover. FOR LIFE.

10 Lessons I Learned From BlogHer '10: Only ONE MUSHY ONE, I SWEAR!

2010-08-12T21:40:00.002-04:00

1. If there is ever a time to lose an emotionally and monetarily valuable piece of jewelry (say, one of the diamond earrings your husband gave you five years ago), it's directly before you're going to recite a ridiculous, self-composed rap in front of about 2,000 people. You will notice it's missing, but in relation to what you're about to do, not give a tiny little rat's ass about it at the moment, because you are so nervous you've turned deeply crazy, and are all, WHATEVER, IT WAS PROBABLY A BLOOD DIAMOND ANYWAY AND THE EARTH WAS TRYING TO TAKE IT BACK BECAUSE LEONARDO DICAPRIO AND HIS AWFUL ACCENT ARE ANGRY OR SOMETHING AND WHY DID HE EVEN GET CAST IN THAT ROLE? WHEN DID HE GET ALL DOUGHY? BRING BACK BASKETBALL DIARIES-ERA LEO AND PERHAPS THIS LOST EARRING IS KARMA FOR HATING MOCK TURTLENECKS OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO PEE ON STAGE.

2. Don't wear nice earrings.

3. It's important to be friends with people who --say, when you get locked out of your hotel room together -- rather than bemoan the situation, enthusiastically go along with your plan to recreate an iconic scene from The Shining.

Jenbshaw's PhotoShop Magic.

4. I mean, just for instance. Totally random example, that.

5. On that note, also be friends with people who don't bat an eyelash when you abscond with what is clearly a dog's kerchief from a swag bag, and create an alternate personality for yourself, a Deadwood-era bank robber named Dastardly Pete, with a predilection for gruffly muttering "This town ain't big enough for the both of us."

6. Your friends, are really awesome.

7. It's okay to care what you look like...but proceed wear the same dress two years in a row. Behold! Last year! TA-DOW:

Broad social/sartorial experiment? Result of moving two weeks before and having fallen behind on dry cleaning? I'LL NEVER TELL. Whatever, man. I like that dress, and HAD anyone come over and confronted me about it, well, who would've looked crazy THEN, huh? LAWYERED.

8. Revolving doors are against you. On a related note, you cannot leave BlogHer, ever, without leaving an article of clothing in the hotel.

9. You're not good at manning the door at a party. Or -- in connection therewith -- properly placing wristbands on partygoers. You will never make it as a carny. Or a bouncer. Or a bouncer-carny.

10. You ain't gonna see everyone. It sucks. So does inadvertently leaving someone's link out of a gushy lovefest, hence my lack of links here. (I loved you, everyone from this weekend! Even you, weird elderly tuxedoed man who appeared as if from nowhere backstage at the Community Keynote and just acted like you belonged there! I like your style!)

My Contribution to the BlogHer 2010 Community Keynote - The Twilight: New Moon Rap

2010-08-08T22:38:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was informed that my Twilight: New Moon rap had been selected as a Voices of the Year humor finalist for the BlogHer Community Keynote. "Would you be comfortable rapping?" I was asked.

I remember that I was standing smack in the middle of Grand Central Terminal when I got the email, and involuntarily simultaneously snorted and guffawed, the resultant noise eerily similar to what I imagine a duck in heat might sound like. I was obviously extremely flattered, but my first instinct was to decline, on account of never having spoken in front of a large group, PARTICULARLY a large group almost uniformly armed with Twitter accounts and blogs, and THEREBY PLATFORMS FOR OPINIONS AND SWEET FANCY MOSES WHERE IS MY FAINTING COUCH. Oh, and the fact that I am not actually a rapper by trade.

And then I thought about it.

Why the hell not?

{CORNY ALERT, FEEL FREE TO SKIP: One of my favorite quotes is "Life begins at the end of your comfort zone." Well, what the eff was THIS, if not an opportunity to actually practice that? Despite how much the thought of doing it made me fear that I'd soil myself in some manner, I hated the idea of a missed opportunity even more.}

And so I said yes, got to memorizing my ridiculous rap, and performed Friday afternoon, with an amazing and talented group, including my hilarious fellow humor finalists, Marinka and Amy.

And truly, it was --gut-clenching terror aside -- exhilarating and fun to actually get out there and do. I hope you enjoy it.

(I've reposted the lyrics at the bottom so you can more easily follow along. if I come across a closer/sharper video, I'll replace this one with it.)

BlogHer 2010 Community Keynote - The Twilight: New Moon Rap from metalia on Vimeo.

The New Moon Rap

Yeah, y'all know me, my name is Bella Swan.
Crushin' on a vampire who's oh-so pale and wan.
Edward's his name, built like a damn marble sculpture.
Knows Shakespeare n' crap, my dude is mad cultured.

His hair is gorgeous, and a sight to be seen.
Though it clearly ain't never been touched by Pantene.
It's shiny and flowing just like Niagara Falls,
Like Paul Bunyan's ox Babe, his 'do is ten feet tall.

But something bad just happened, hit me right in the gut.
It was my birthday and I got a paper cut.
No, really. That's it. It was nothing worse than that.
Then Jasper tried to eat me and so Edward knocked me flat.

Now time out for just one sec (this is kinda gross to mention),
But it's something that I feel needs a bit of attention.
If just a little paper cut made Jasper misbehave,
How do them vampires deal when I surf the crimson wave?

But back to the story at hand, though, herrre!
Edward abandoned me to . . . keep me all secure?
Look, I'm clumsy on the best of days, concussions to my gourd.
I'm bruisin', I'm trippin', I'm like ex-prez Gerald Ford.

So how exactly is it smart to leave me all alone?
It's truly quite a wonder I don't got more broken bones.
Oh! A lady vamp--Victoria-- is out to kill me good.
So of COURSE it's wise to leave my ass out there in the woods!

I soon realize I "see" Edward when I act super dumb.
Hangin' with Polanskis and racing bikes for fun.
I decide I'mma become an adrenaline junkie.
There's been no worse idea since that show Love Monkey.

I enlist Jacob to help, and with him, his hot ab muscles.
Them cougar hos be trippin'. Don't fight me, hos, I'll tussle.
I want him! I don't! I'm so damn undecided.
I hate him! I love him! I totes just wanna Ride It!

Jacob soon mysteriously abandons my ass, too.
He gets all enraged and treats my friend Mike just like a poo.
I'm mired in what's become a real deep personal hell.
But with these boys all leaving me, I wonder...do I smell?

Surprise! Jacob's a werewolf; lycanthrope if yo' smart.
He fursplodes out his cutoffs, they shred and come apart.
And Jacob's doing wolfy things, ain't got no time for me.
So I decide to run off, and cliffdive into the sea.

"Sound Decisions" is my middle name, but thankfully, I'm buoyant.
Alas Alice, Edward's sister (she's USUALLY clairvoyant),
She sees me drown, she doesn't see that Jacob comes to save me.
From Victoria the vampire, and the churnin' sea.

But now poor Edward thinks I'm gone an' that I kicked the bucket.
So he decides he'll go and tell the Volturi to suck it.
What, ya'll don't know about the vampires Volturi?
They melt you like the sun does to a wee snow flurry.

And how will Edward go and stick it to the man?
Drain a rabbi in Times Square? Hit a nun with a van?
No! Edward goes about his game much more starkly.
He'll...step into the sun, so his skin turns all sparkly?

Yo, don't ask me, people, I'm just a mere human.
I lack the understanding of vampire acumen.
So Alice and I set out to stop my darling Ed.
Prevent the Volturi from up and killin' him dead.

Dudes prancing 'round Voltura in red shrouds with quite the sheen,
Was like something straight outta Eyes Wide Shut's deleted scenes.
No orgies here, though; just peeps blocking me from my run,
Somehow, I reached Ed 'fore he sparkled in the sun.

Some crazy vampire crap went down...hey look! Dakota Fanning.
And some vampire tackled Edward, just like Peyton Manning.
We left Voltura promising that I'd be turned VAMPIRE.
The Cullens had sworn up and down- Volturi don't like liars.

So here we are, a promise made, soon I shall be undead.
I don't want to spoil things, in case you haven't read.
For what it's worth though, I must say, now that we've gotten back,
I'd still rather totally do those dudes in the wolfpack.

My love of cheese is boundless, and I secretly judge people who wear mock turtlenecks

2010-08-05T00:02:00.000-04:00

Okay, look.

I gather I'm supposed to be writing some sort of bio post, so that anyone I meet at BlogHer this weekend can learn more about me, should they choose to check out my blog, but as a rule, writing bios makes me want to set my brain aflame. Plus, I'm getting all self-conscious at the thought of just randomly describing myself. Here is my blog! There is my header! My sidebar: Let me show you it! Lord, I feel like I'm on an episode of Cribs, with no Scarface poster to show for it. And really, in terms of showing you the real me, if I meet you, I'll probably just say "hi!" and not bust out with some Fun Fact About Me, all "my love of cheese is boundless, and I secretly judge people who wear mock turtlenecks!" Because although TRUE, that would be weird. And also not unlike something out of a Bing commercial, but that's neither here nor there.

So, um, this is what I look like. Self portrait, because my husband is presently at his fourth store in a desperate, last-minute attempt to procure a funny hat for my son's Funny Hat Day at camp tomorrow. We are those parents.

What's great about this picture is that my nose looks kind of bigger than it actually is, so it'll be kind of awesome if, when you meet me, you're pleasantly surprised about its size. "Your nose! It's much smaller than I thought it would be!" you'll want to say. And go right ahead! It'll be a fantastic icebreaker, and I will nod knowingly, and then make with the finger guns. As you do, when someone remarks favorably upon your nose.

Note, please, that this is also my Nervous Face. I point this out because I'm speaking at the BlogHer Keynote, so I will be making said face -- and probably also Clenching Things -- between now and Friday evening, after I read my post. All I need to do is think about it, and *BOOM* Nervous Face, plus Clenching. I have been doing this often, and accordingly, do not construe this face as me being aloof, genetically bitchfaced, and/or mentally snarking on your shoes. You are, I assume, lovely, I usually smile a lot, and I think they're cute. All it is, really, is me, trying not to barf. (I should be a LOT more fun after the Keynote, I swear!)

I suppose that about wraps it up; safe travels to everyone, and I can't wait to meet everyone this weekend. Well, except her, over there. In the mock turtleneck. She's up to something, I can just tell.

Take Me To The River...

2010-08-03T23:29:00.000-04:00

Remember a few months back when I mentioned that I'd been selected as a PBS Kids Blogger Ambassador? No? What's that? Your own life? Point taken. Well! Anyway, I am one, and this Sunday, I'll be unwinding from BlogHer with J and the kids at this month's first event, taking place at the Hudson River Museum in Yonkers. I'm going to be the "mayor" of the event, and while I'm not certain what this entails, exactly, I think it means I won Foursquare. All of it. Without ever even DOING Foursquare, which is truly an accomplishment to be commended and/or appended to my resume. Relatedly, I am now the mayor of your pantry, and mama wants some s'mores. Wait. Where was I? Oh, yes. The event!

The event is free for Kids Club Thirteen members, and Peep from Peep and the Big Wide World will be there, which -- since Peep's show focuses on breaking down science/nature concepts for little kids --is a perfect fit for the location. (The Hudson River Museum sits right on the Hudson, and among other great areas, contains a kid-friendly Riverama, filled with aquariums, a huge 3D map of the river, interactive, hands-on displays, and more.)

There will be a ton of great activities for the kids, including a Peep "what floats" activity (where kids learn about what floats and what sinks), notebook making, Peep coloring and tattoos, an episode screening, a planetarium, and a surprise giveaway for first 24 member children to arrive, a Riverama Explore Challenge, and a bunch of other stuff.

So! If you're local, and are looking for something new and different to do with your kid(s) this weekend, come to the Hudson River Museum on Sunday, August 8 at 10:30 a.m. It's going to be a great event, and I would love to meet and hang out with you (when I'm not actively retrieving Lo from her inevitable swan dive into the aquarium). Hope to see you there!

(Click here for event details.)

Disclosure: I’ve received a free PBS Kids Club membership for the year. (Other than that, I’m receiving no compensation). Feel free to join yourself; membership is $75, covers two adults, and up to three kids, and is ideal for ages 3-11. Plus, you're supporting public television (so...good deed, right there) and will have fantastic events squared away for your kids each month. Kids Club Thirteen is also on Facebook (check out the programs under the "Events" tab), and Twitter.

I've reached the point in my life where I derive entertainment from my oven manual.

2010-07-29T00:00:00.000-04:00

Our new-to-us apartment comes with an actually-new oven. This thrilled me, because I have a little thing about really old ovens (which this apartment had, when we first checked it out). In truth, it's not really a little thing, so much as it is a crippling fear that an older oven will --due to its aged state -- silently leak deathly gas, suffer from blown-out pilot lights, and/or create an epic fireball in which we all shall perish.

This is likely a direct consequence of what actually repeatedly happened with the oven in our old apartment (minus epic fireball). It was a scary, unpredictable time, a time when I was so overjoyed to get a new oven that I wrote an entire song about bidding the old one adieu (to the tune of James Blunt's "Goodbye, My Lover,") as early readers of this blog may recall. (Excerpt: "How you disappoint me, you let me down/Your pilot light went out, and my cake didn’t brown/Goodbye my oven, You’re not my friend/Pilot light blew out… Nearly were the death of me.")

Naturally, I sat down to read the manual, so as to avoid any potential oven-related conflagration, and while most of it was helpful, the Q & A page was ...something. What follows are actual, direct questions from the list. I've responded with my own answers in place of theirs, because really, do you want to hear about flex-line gas hookup? No, you do not. No one does.

Why does the food slide to one side of the cookware?

The obvious answer is a leveling issue and/or gravity, but that's just what the true culprit -- a poltergeist -- wants you to think. It's all about keeping one step ahead of those wily bastards. Or so I've been led to believe from the 4-7 seconds of the Paranormal Activity trailer I could stand to watch before shrieking and frantically turning to Nick Jr. to soothe my frazzled nerves. Basically, I think you need to do something with a demonologist, and maybe a video camera? And also not taunting It? I'm sure it'll work out.

When I used my oven for the first time there was an odor and some smoking?

First of all, that's not an actual question, but neither here nor there, what you're describing doesn't sound like an oven, so much as a bunch of teenage boys. Are there teenage boys in your kitchen? Yes? Lecture them about lung cancer, proper use of deodorant andeschewing Axe body spray. Then get them some Sunny D. Not the purple stuff, but Sunny D. Allegedly, this will cause them to think you're the coolest. Also those pizza roll things. Cook them in your demon lair/oven.

My range makes noises when I use the oven. Is this normal, or is something wrong?

Okay, don't panic, but it seriously, seriously sounds like Zuul is up in there. Hightail it out of there, and do NOT under any circumstances identify yourself as The Keymaster.

My oven smokes excessively while broiling?

Cooking is stressful, and stress manifests itself differently. Drinking, drugs...perhaps a smoking habit, as we see here. We can only assume no one was around to put it on the proper path in its youth with a stern talking-to and some Sunny D, you know?

My oven temperature doesn't seem right?

Again, I'm not entirely convinced that you understand the concept of a question. I really --waaaait a second; OMFG. Is this a side effect of demonic possession? Loss of basic grammar skills? I DO NOT POSSESS A CROSS BUT SO HELP ME, DEMON, I WILL MAKE ONE OUT OF POPSICLE STICKS. JUST DON'T COME AT ME UNTIL I EAT THE POPSICLES.

If you'll excuse me, I'm off to read my camera manual to see if any similar such ridiculous questions reside therein.

To Do: Rock the Mic Like a Vandal

2010-07-26T23:55:00.000-04:00

Occasionally, there are moments in life where you're faced with something so insanely far outside your comfort zone, but also so amazing that you kinda just have to go along with it, and say, "Sure! What's the worst that could happen?"

Well, in this case, the worst that can happen is that I will simultaneously shame and soil myself in public, but I'm trying really hard not think about that.

I was selected as one of BlogHer's Voices of the Year -- in the Humor category -- which means that I (along with my two fellow finalists, these intimidatingly hilarious ladies) will be reading my nominated post (thanks, Ali!) at the conference's Community Keynote next week. I am thrilled, but also VERY NERVOUS. For reasons that should be obvious (I only got a B+ in Public Speaking in college! B+!), but also because I'm afraid that my being labeled as a humor finalist may create certain expectations.

For instance, I fear that people might come over to me and be all, "Humor finalist, eh? MAKE ME LAUGH! NOW!" because that is totally an actual thing that people do in real life. For some reason, I imagine that everyone who will do this will look like Harold Zidler from Moulin Rouge. Yes, even the ladies. I don't know. And somehow they'll have whips, or whatever, and then I will feel compelled to do SOMEthing, but then uncontrollably projectile vomit on them, because I get nervous under pressure, particularly when I'm already preoccupied with thoughts of impending public speaking.

At this point, I'm considering investing in a squirting lapel flower or spinning bowtie, so I can at least have a humor gimmick, you know? "Well, she did nervously stare at me for 12 seconds, and then throw up on my carefully-selected Anthropologie skirt, but she DID have that spinning bowtie. Well played, humor finalist Metalia. Well played," they'll all say.

Make no mistake, I'm petrified, excited, and honored, and am practicing my post daily, annoying every living thing around me (and possibly my mirrors) with my repeat performances. If you're coming to BlogHer, I hope you'll come to the Keynote. The speaker lineup is amazing, and I promise to do my very best not to hurl onstage. If I do, though, I will totally cover the cost of dry cleaning for the front row. Swearsies.

Ain't No Potty Like A--Oh, Forget It.

2010-07-18T22:40:00.000-04:00

We move on Thursday. And before you go frantically clicking the "back" button, all, ENOUGH WITH THE MOVING, LADY, MY GOD, I mention this only to give you some context. Specifically, some context into the fact that my two-year-old decided that now -- NOWNOWNOW -- would be the optimal time for her to toilet train herself.

In hindsight, I should have picked up on the fact that Lo would pull something like this, given that her behavior of late is akin to Lindsay Lohan's, circa 2007. (Or always.) She recently figured out how to stealthily remove her diaper, and then not-so-stealthily streak down the hallway, pantsless, shrieking "look at MEEEEEEEE" before careening into any number of large (plastic toy) cars. On the bright side, she is not ornery or -- to my knowledge -- drunk.

This carries over into the night, as well, in that she's been taking off her diaper once she's already in her crib, allegedly settling in for the evening. If we're lucky, she'll crow "I did it!" which tends to tip us off that it's time to go retrieve said diaper. From the hallway floor, since she tosses it outside the room, if she can. If we're not, we'll find ourselves tripping over a diaper when we go in to check on the kids before we go to sleep. I fully believe she is taunting us.

With this background, it should come as no surprise that she decided to toilet train herself earlier this week. Because: of course. I had NOTHING to do with this, I swear. It's not like I made her sit there on some naturally-sourced, hand-hewn olivewood potty, while I sat strumming my (as-yet-nonexistent) guitar, and practicing her Latin flashcards. This was all her, and while the timing could not be worse...

...I think it's pretty cool that she had the drive to try to do it on her own. And a good thing, too, because Google has not been entirely helpful to me, here:

Did I mention that the new place has just been almost fully carpeted? Pray for us, you guys. And our security deposit.

So I have a "relocation specialist" now. That is a thing, apparently.

2010-07-12T23:00:00.000-04:00

A few months back, I mentioned that we were entrenched in the delightful and not-at-all-maddening process of selling our apartment. We had purchased our current place back in 2005, before we had kids, and I remember moving in, and thinking, "My god, this place is HUGE! We can use the living room as a squash court! WE CAN LIVE HERE FOREVER! AND ALSO LEARN TO PLAY SQUASH, WHILE WE ARE AT IT." Fast forward a whole mess of years and two kids later,and the formerly-palatial apartment is feeling more refrigerator box-sized by the day. It's time to move on; not far, but just to a place where I do not need to constantly come up with new and creative ways to store all my extra Costco toilet paper. Conveniently enough, we found a great, bigger place right around the corner. A true dining room! A porch! TWO closets in the kids' room! Huzzah!

We found buyers for our place -- which is what set this all in motion -- and the thing is, once things started moving, they Really Moved Quickly, such that everything was settled on Friday, and after discussions earlier today, it appears we're closing/moving next week. OMG. I shouldn't even be writing this; I should be, like, piling our books together, or extricating the toilet paper rolls from their many, many hiding places. But it happened so fast that I'm kind of just doing the slow, quiet freakout.

The one thing I have done (since this all came together EARLIER TODAY) was call movers to come in for an estimate. They told me they'd be sending a "relocation specialist" to our place later this week. A RELOCATION SPECIALIST. This made me feel like I was: (a) in the Witness Protection Program; (b) on a House Hunters-type show; (c) possibly joining a cult; and (d) on a House Hunters-type show about people in the Witness Protection Program wherein said witnesses are relocated to the perfect cult compound for them. It's probably called something like House Hunters WPP: Drinkin' the Kool Aid. You know, if it actually existed.

...
...
...
Obviously, I have been sitting here for the past 10 minutes trying to think of a suitable name for my fake show. Again, this is instead of packing. For our move taking place in about a week. WE ARE DOOMED.

Tell me: How do you pack with kids around? Is there a method to the madness? Should I clean out first, or just move everything, and then deal with it in the new place? Despite however organized I feel like we may be, there is just so much STUFF. Guide me, o wise ones!

An Open Letter to the Person Who Most Definitely Purposely Stole My Flip Flops (Updated)

2010-07-05T23:40:00.005-04:00

This weekend was full of typical Independence Day stuff -- parades, family togetherness, and alarming consumption of barbecue. J and I saw Eclipse, and although I usually like to rap about Twilight, I worry that might be overkill, in light of last week's rap-centric post (about The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, but still). My feelings can be summed up like so:

Instead, I need to talk to you about something that happened today. We -- along with some friends -- took our kids to a (relatively) nearby kids' water park that I did NOT know existed until basically a day ago. (Hooray for having friends who are Planners and Doers and Arrangers of Fun Activities!) The park was great --clean, well-organized, rides for a huge age range of kids, and the lines were minimal. The kids had an amazing time, and we cannot wait to go back. THAT BEING SAID:

~An Open Letter to the Person Who Most Definitely Purposely Stole My Flip-Flops~

Dear Sir or Madam:

Let's not mince words here: you stole my flip-flops, on a HUNDRED-DEGREE DAY, from the lazy river ride at a children's water park. Adding insult to injury, you left your (same sized but CLEARLY DISSIMILAR) fugly plastic Walmart flip-flops in the precise spot where my black and silver Havaianas used to reside. Were you trying to be...nice? Because that just makes me hate you MORE, as it shows that you rationalized the switch by thinking, "it's okay that I'm taking her shoes, because she'll have my shoes." Don't try to protest; I read Silence of the Lambs, and repeatedly watched Primal Fear in high school, so I THINK I know a little something about the complex inner workings of the human mind, you know?

Also, big fat thanks for making me and my husband nearly (well, not really, but NEITHER HERE NOR THERE) get divorced in the middle of the water park. He's SO NICE, you see, and kept insisting that the switch had to have been an accident. And I'm irritated by the whole situation, so I'm all, I AM BASICALLY WALKING ON HOT COALS RIGHT NOW, STOP IT WITH YOUR MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS CRAP, J. And then poor judgment compelled me to wonder aloud if I should go ask the lifeguard if she'd seen anyone absconding with silver/black flip-flops, and...things were said. Things like OH, LET'S PUT OUT AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN and me, countering with DON'T YOU GET THAT THIS IS A TECHNICAL CRIME, and then I think Scotland Yard was invoked -- sarcastically -- and I don't even know, because my feet were aflame, and our children were essentially twin popsicle-propelled blurs.

So then I had to borrow my husband's big-ass flip-flops and literally flip-flop my way back through the park, to the parking lot, to fetch the extra pair I had in the car. (THANK GOD FOR THAT.) Because the walk was so long, I soon realized that the most efficient means of keeping the flip-flops on my feet was to perform a sort of...raised-knee...gait-type thing, that--okay, it was a MARCH, alright? I MARCHED BACK TO MY CAR, MUTTERING TO MYSELF, IN EXCEEDINGLY LARGE AND MASCULINE FLIP-FLOPS. I undoubtedly looked both sane and happy as I walked, let me just tell you. And as much as I wanted to complain to J about my trek upon my return, it's important to bear in mind that during my absence, he was chasing after the aforementioned hyper children, by himself, in a water park, without shoes. So. I had to feel bad about that (even though he continues to believe that the missing shoes were an innocent mistake, and no one could do it on purpose, and people are inherently nice and honest mistakes happen and WHY IS HE BEING MATTHEW McCONAUGHEY ABOUT THIS).

And I want you (AND HIM) to know that when I shared this tale with Ali, she promptly guessed the brand of stolen flip-flops, and told me that her sister -- who has a pair -- had been warned at the beach, because, and I quote, "people are stealing them like nuts." WHO IN THE HELL STEALS OTHER PEOPLE'S FLIP-FLOPS? And what's more, HOW HAS THIS BECOME AN EPIDEMIC? Is that shoe-stealing episode of Sex and the City to blame for this? The recession? The lunar cycle? Karl Rove? WHAT?

In closing, I'm well aware that there are bigger problems in the world, but right now, I am hatiest toward your thieving ass. I can only hope that the stubborn plantar wart that once befell my big toe visits itself upon your feet, tenfold.

xoxo,

Metalia

Tell me: Who do you think is right: me, or J? WE ARE DYING TO KNOW.

UPDATE: Something is up with Blogger's comments; they're coming through via email just fine, but are taking forever to actually show up here. I just wanted you to know I'm not deleting comments for no reason, or whatever. :)

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo: A Rap. (Well, SOMEONE had to do it.)*

2010-06-30T06:03:00.003-04:00

I recently finished the third book in the Millennium Trilogy, aka “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo books.” And you know what? WHATEVER, Stieg Larson. I am not convinced that these works are a testament to his (purported) feminism, nor am I convinced that they needed to be as EFFING LONG AS THEY WERE, MY GOD. Toward the end there, I was just soldiering on, determined to push through to the end. A literary Bataan, if you will. And now that I’m on the other side, and have reflected on the series as a whole, I say again: WhatEVER, Stieg Larson. Except he’s, uh, dead, and basically, my only recourse at this point is a rap. A rap covering only my issues with the first book, since I know a lot of people haven’t read the others yet. (Even though I’m not spoiling, so much as I am…whining. Via rhyme.) Here we go:

Lisbeth Salander, master computer hacker!
Loves snoopin’ in yo’ Gmail, and her lipstick can’t be blacker.
Pierced all over, with a big-ass dragon tattoo.
That’s how you know she’s “dangerous,” to me, you, and you.

Mikael Blomkvist, financial reporter, of sorts!
Nondescript and middle-aged, or so the book reports.
Doesn’t pour on charm or make any maneuvers.
TOTAL sense that homeboy’s a…walking panty remover?

(Eyeroll! Eyeroll! I’m rolling my eyeballs!
It’s silly and unreal, but I’m in for the long haul.
Now lemme get back to the topic right here,
Like how Mikael met Lisbeth and—hold on, I need a beer.)

Mikael’s sued for libel by some Swedish billionaire,
We drill down to minutiae about which no one cares.
He’s facing jail, he’s desperate, and he needs to find a way…
A dude named Henrik Vanger then swoops in and saves the day.

Asks Mike to help him with a family mystery, if he can;
In return he’ll help bring down that bad rich Swedish man.
Mikael agrees and Lisbeth gets her tattooed self involved,
Mystery, you’d best get set to get yo’ ass SOLVED.

The book then takes a turn for the…hyper-detailed.
Computer models! Names of highways! BOOK, YOU HAVE DERAILED.
Someone else’s groceries! Then more direction stuff.
What’s next? A camera manual? MY GOD, LARSSON, ENOUGH.

I just don’t care how they all got from point A to point B.
Unless something blew up, Die Hard-style, or crashed into a tree.
TONS of wasted pages on trip routes: “South, then northwest…”
Come on now, yo, Stieg Larsson-- this ain’t no damned MapQuest!

Coffee! Coffee! Everyone drinks coffee!
They pace, run, and get shot at, and then crack the mystery.
You think the book is over, since the puzzle has been solved.
And then we’re back to…Swedish Baddie? It’s all too involved.

Another hundred pages; and at last the book is done.
But not before I get confused, like in Trig 101.
Implausible behaviors and absurd logic abounds.
Even the explanations do nothing but confound.

All that said, it’s riveting, the story keeps you hooked.
There’s just a lot of extra crap that's muddling the book.
I truly get why it’s been so prominently featured.
I liked it like Lisbeth loves her Billy’s Pan Pizza.

~Fin~

*No one had to do it.

Look, I Don't Want To Brag, But We Totally Saw One-Eyed Willie's Ship.

2010-06-23T22:53:00.002-04:00

J and I just returned from our first "real" vacation together in over four years. By "real" I mean "actual vacation for the express purpose of doing nothing other than sitting on a beach, rather than me accompanying J to Chicago on business, which --while fun! -- is, I'm sorry, not the same thing."

We went to St. Lucia with good couple friends, and we all had a fantastic time together. I was (naturally!) stricken with weepy momguilt as I packed up and kissed the kids goodbye, but after an uneventful flight, a scenic drive to the hotel, and this view to greet us from our villa, I attempted to get over it:

We stayed here, and OMFG, you guys, nicest hotel ever. Gorgeous, pristine, quiet, AND our place was literally steps from the beach. Even J -- who generally hates the ocean because he "doesn't see the point," on account of "all the sand" -- loved the location. (ACTUAL STATEMENT THAT HE HAS REPEATEDLY MADE.)

We spent a lot of time hanging out there, which afforded us the opportunity to pretend that we are Professional Computer Wallpaper Photographers:

Also, to pretend that we are Goonies, because, I'm sorry, are you going to sit there and try to tell me that this is NOT One-Eyed Willie's Ship? Are you? Why would you do that? WHO ARE YOU, YOU TERRIBLE PERSON WHO IS LYING? Are you after the treasure? Is that it? ANSWER MEEEE. And then do the Truffle Shuffle.

Speaking of ships, we also had a Dramatic Rescue at Sea. (I, too, am shocked that I got into the water in the first place, but the ocean was so calm and clear and blue that I told myself I would see the man-eating sharks coming, and...kick them. A sound, logical approach if ever there was one.) All four of us boarded a catamaran at the hotel, and...well, I will summarize our plight in two pie graphs:

Naturally, there was a bit of a disconnect, and we got stranded out in the water, thus necessitating the Dramatic Rescue at Sea. Which, yes, was simply another catamaran, piloted (steered?) by an employee of the hotel with actual experience, who was maybe/definitely cursing our collective idiocy, but I stand by my description.

All in all, it was an amazing trip; no one got sunburned or shark-eaten, J and I had a great time with each other, and with our friends.

It honestly felt odd at first to be...well, selfish, and to spend time completely relaxed; not waking up at 5:45, thinking about my office, planning dinners, or performing my in-demand Backyardigans bedtime song. The biggest issues I faced on St. Lucia involved this tiny lizard, and keeping one step ahead of his wily ass, and what to drink with dinner.

But my work was still there when I got back, our kids were truly fine without us, and the trip left me incredibly relaxed, happy, and all recharged. Even when faced with a barfing toddler not five hours after we returned. And hey, there's something to be said for that.

Birthday Girls, Pedicure Strategies, and My Ugly Thumb (UPDATED)

2010-06-15T00:26:00.002-04:00

1. J and I leave for a brief trip to St. Lucia on Thursday. Do you know what I've done in preparation for said trip? Gotten a pedicure. Because although my list -- my GLORIOUS list! -- of stuff to do before we go is a thing of beauty, truly, I haven't had time to pack, or properly organize myself. And I know, call the wahmbulance, but I am petrified about forgetting something, so instead of facing that problem head-on, I...got the pedicure. Rational!

2. The pedicure was this color.

I'm usually SUPER dull with my polish choices (buff pink, or dark red), but I was all "I NEED A VACATION COLOR," which is precisely the type of ridiculous thing I mutter to myself while actively avoiding packing. It's kind of coral-y, which makes it (in my mind, anyway) a vacation color, AND is my homage to the late Rue McClanahan. I'm pouring out a Geritol for you, my homie!

3. I was pretty sure my pedicure lady was talking about me to the adjacent pedicure lady, which, you know, par for the course, and all that. However! PRO TIP: I have determined that googling how to say "I understand you" in Korean ("ah deh suh yo"), and very quietly muttering it to yourself will aid you in ascertaining whether or not your pedicure lady is in fact talking about you. The giveaway is the stricken look. (Assuming, of course, that she is Korean.) (Note: she was.) (What the hell was she saying about me?) Thank you, Google!

4. I have a recipe for EASY, quick sesame noodles up at Aiming Low today. They are life-changing! Be advised however...

5...That to get to it, you'll have to endure photos of my "ugly ass thumb." (Thank you, commenter Bob Ross!)

6. It's Lo's birthday next Sunday; because of our trip, we held her party this weekend with our families. I WILL spare you yet another unending family post; however, I do need you to see this here cake...

...and the birthday girl in her crown:

Aw.

UPDATE: A bunch of people have asked about the nail polish shade; it's OPI On Collins Avenue!

My Karaoke Secret: EMOTIVE HANDS.

2010-06-09T20:22:00.000-04:00

My brother (Goose) has instructed me to share this. I'm not entirely certain you want to watch it, but if you enjoy shaky/blurry Blair Witch Project-style camerawork, bad karaoke duets, emotive hand gestures, and the idea of laughing at people (namely me), then I say go for it:

TURN THE HELL AROUND ALREADY, BRIGHT EYES.