To market, to market...

Whenever there’s an article in a prominent news source (by which I mean Us Weekly) about celebrities “partying” too much, I never understand what it means. Or, to put a finer point on it, why that specific term is used. I mean, you want to say “coking it up, Requiem for a Dream-style,” okay, but I hear partying, and I literally picture Lindsay Lohan and Adam Levine wearing little party hats and glow necklaces, laughingly doing the Electric Slide, and yes, maybe this is all culled directly from my Bat Mitzvah memories, but regardless, IT’S WHAT I SEE.

And perhaps, now that I think about it, this is all a function of how unspeakably lame I’ve become in recent years. Exhibit A: We spent the weekend at my parents’ house, and given the gift of free babysitting on Saturday night (thanks, Mom and Dad!), we took the opportunity to…go food shopping.

(College Me is SOOOO disappointed in Modern Day Me right now. Why, she even put down the Irish Car Bomb she was drinking to mock me. WITHERINGLY. Fortunately, she is wearing her stupid newsboy cap so it’s hard to take her seriously.)



ANYway, off we we went to the supermarket at nearly midnight, and the night out, plus the emptiness of the store conspired to make the supermarket The Official Place Where I Do Dumb Things. Let me lay it out for you in quiz form:

~SUPERMARKET SWEEP!~

1. You’re in the spice aisle. Getting spices and whatnot. Your husband approaches with the cart. What do you do?

(a) Calmly place the two glass jars in the cart.
(b) Toss the glass jars at him, shrieking “THINK FAST!”
(c) Commence shaking the jars like maracas, growling “oh, yeahhhhh! Let’s get this party STARTED,” in what you think is a fairly good impression of Gloria Estefan, but in all likelihood just makes you sound like you have a speech impediment.
(d) Dance-chase said husband into the next aisle, still shaking the spice jars, stage whispering that the rhythm is going to get him.
(e) Both (c) and (d).

2. You and your husband are purchasing fruit when some big band Muzak comes over the loudspeaker. What do you do?

(a) There IS only one real option here: West Side Story rumble walk.

3. You are in the dairy aisle, and spot an aerosol can filed with waffle batter. Let me clarify: SPRAY WAFFLES, Y’ALL. You then notice it has the following name:
What do you do?

(a) Whuh? Why is this funny?
(b) Dissolve into a GIGGLE EXPLOSION BECAUSE (ORGANIC!) BATTER BLASTER HAHAAAA.
(c) Tweet about Batter Blaster, and the humor inherent therein.
(d) Both (b) and (c).

4. You have recently learned a few basic moves from the Thriller dance. Your husband –a much better dancer than you BY FAR—locks eyes with you and commences a dance-off at the other end of the otherwise-empty dairy aisle, all the way down by the yogurt. “Weird!” you think, “So uncharacteristic of him!” What do you do?

(a) Figure it has to be a trick, ignore his Mr. Schuester-like moves, and continue perusing your Coffee Mate options.
(b) Naïvely assume that he has embraced the art of the dance-off, and is conveying this message to you through (what else?) dance.
(c) Commence excuting the few Thriller moves you have mastered with great fervor.
(d) Notice said husband has stopped dancing and is standing there, holding back laughter, as the purpose of his move bustin’ was NOT, in fact, to engage you in a dance-off out of the goodness of his heart, but rather, because a burly gentleman had, unbeknownst to you, rounded the corner of the dairy aisle and your husband KNEW you'd not be able to resist the lure of a dance-off. Aaaaand, now there's a large man standing there, arms crossed, smiling. On the bright side: he applauds.
(e) GAHHH, (b) through (d).

5. A bit wounded after the Great Dance-Off Debacle, you find yourselves in the baked goods section, square in front of a blank giant birthday cupcake-cake. What do you do?

(a) Duh, keep walking. It’s after midnight and you guys don’t need a damn cupcake-cake.
(b) Stand there for a full three minutes, debating the pros and cons of the cupcake-cake and why it should come home with you.
(c) Miraculously resist temptation.


Eyes on your own paper.

Presenting . . . The New Moon Rap!

Yesterday marked our sixth wedding anniversary, and we celebrated with dinner, a movie, and spending Sunday night at a lovely hotel, where I was elated to discover that our room phone very strongly resembled Zach Morris' ginormo cell phone.

Happy Anniversary, love!

Yesterday, I asked J to accompany me to a viewing of New Moon. I cited unassailable points such as Hey, It's Our Anniversary, and of course, Hey, Who Dragged Me to Umpteen Harry Potter Movies (Wherein I Personally Lost The Will To Live, And Also Remain Awake, As Evidenced By That One Harry Potter Movie Where I Fell Asleep To The Point Of FULL-ON DREAMING, And Also Drooling, And Yeah, I Was Pregnant, But I'm Sure I Would've Still Passed Out Because: Boredom)? OH RIGHT, IT WAS YOU.

We saw New Moon.

And, well . . . I felt compelled to write a rap ode to it. (If you've read the book but haven't seen the movie yet, don't worry; I'm not really giving anything away. The movie is pretty faithful to the book.) Happy Tuesday!

The New Moon Rap

Yeah, y'all know me, my name is Bella Swan.
I have a thing for a vampire who's oh-so-very wan.
Edward's his name, built like a damn marble sculpture.
Knows Shakespeare and shit, 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 fallin', I'm slippin', 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 ABC's 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 then treats my friend Mike just like a poo.
I'm mired in what's become a very 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, he has no time for me.
So of course I run off, and cliffdive into the sea.

"Sound Decisions" is my middle name, but fortunately 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 crotchety-ass ol' sea.

But now poor Edward thinks I'm gone; that I kicked the bucket.
So he decides to 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 shit 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 before he sparkled in the sun.

Some crazy vampire shit 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.

Five things I learned in Chicago--and elsewhere--this week

1. I AM APPARENTLY DEEPLY OBSESSED WITH FOOD.

Perhaps it's Chicago's food more than anything, but I reread my (primarily food-related) tweets as my trip was drawing to a close, and I was like, "damn, self." And also "I need another cookie, maybe, to deal with this news." That town is full of crazy delicious food in general, but it's ALSO a big-ass hub of the best kosher meats, for some mysterious reason, which means that we come prepared during our visits. Preparation can be loosely defined as "procuring a bag of near-NASA-levels of insulation-related technology, so as to collect and store sundry cured meats, including, but not limited to, hard salamis, sausages, and something called 'beer sticks' which looked promising." It's not that we don't have kosher meat in New York--we do--it's just that it's much better in Chicago. Plus, doing this affords us the opportunity to make numerous "I got your sausage RIGHT HERE"-type jokes, which are, I believe, a foundation of every healthy marriage. (Note: this joke also works with hard salami.)

2. JOHN IS DEAD.

I don't really know who John is, exactly, but this is what a crazy hobo very somberly said to me and Kristin as we were strolling across Bridge Over That River, I Know It's Called the Chicago River, But Does That Bridge Even Have a Name, Shit I Am Embarrassing Myself Bridge. And you know me, I take the hobos very seriously, no matter the city. So, my condolences to all those who knew and loved John.

As for my time with Kristin, as Im sure you already know, she's just fantastic. This was evidenced by her patiently listening to my earnest retelling of the plot of Vice Versa (yes, I KNOW you haven't seen it. NO ONE has), and we talked and laughed and it's honestly because I was so engrossed in hanging out that I forgot to take a picture. (BOOOOO, self.) But take my word for it: fun was had.

And speaking of fun, we also had a fantastic time hanging out with my cousin and her husband (Remember? We went to Chicago for their wedding in June?) While this picture was not taken during this trip, this does provide some insight into the grace and refinement that so exemplifies our relationship.



3. I AM GENERALLY HOPELESSLY IMMATURE, YES, BUT COME ON.

Okay, this was technically in Newark Airport, but I was on my WAY to Chicago, so it counts:



HOT ERUPTIONS? Really? Just...really? My brother (and a few others) have pointed out the hilarity of the "MoonSteamer" drink option, as well.

The fact that we were served warm nuts on the plane certainly didn't HELP matters.

4. I CANNOT BE TRUSTED TO "JUST QUICKLY BROWSE" J. CREW'S CREWCUTS SECTION.

I've just started perusing their little girl stuff, since Lo is getting big enough to wear it, and...well. I know this is Internet Blasphemy, but I think I like their little girl gear more than the stuff in my size. Look!

Lucky for me, the prices are super reasonable. (I KID.)

5. HAAHAAAAAA

The three things that made me laugh the hardest this week:

A. This recap of a stunningly awful Gossip Girl episode.

B. Pale is the New Tan (via Sundry)

C. This:



Have a great weekend!

Top Five Freaky Fictional Five

I am currently sitting here in beautiful….Newark Liberty Airport, waiting for my flight to Chicago to depart. [Spoiler alert: I have since landed. Safely, even!]

I’m doing my best to distract myself, since, as I’ve mentioned time and again, I’m among the world’s most nervous flyers. And you know, people are always saying things like “oh, take a Valium!” to me when I bring up My Flying Issue, as if I just have Valium lying around, and AS IF they’re not talking to the girl who called Poison Control ON HERSELF because she got her hours mixed up while in a post-wisdom-tooth-extraction-related narcotic haze, and inadvertently took a Percocet two hours early. And was concerned, you see, that she had overdosed. On one Percocet.The poison control woman? She was LAUGHING AT ME. POISON CONTROL. I place the blame for my attitude towards all drugs--legal and illegal--squarely on the “Jesse on Speed” episode of Saved by the Bell and the COCAINE KILLS YOU DEAD EVEN IF YOU TRY IT ONE TIME, REGINA MORROW Sweet Valley High book. I’VE GOT MY EYE ON YOU, FLINTSTONES GUMMIES.

And J made an excellent point to me on our way over here, which is that when you TELL people you’re a nervous flyer? Inevitably, someone will say to you “oh , really? Huh. I’m a GREAT flyer.” And then laugh smugly. WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ME, ASSHOLE? Does your lack of fear somehow negate mine? Is it supposed to make me feel better? What? WHAT IS YOUR POINT? TELL MEEEEEEE.

Damn. Clearly, I really, really need to distract myself, and I believe I have the perfect solution. I was chatting with Mommy Melee on Friday, and I learned that she was putting together a post with her Top Five Fictional Guy Crushes. She told me she’d love to see my list, and really, Maria is up there, in terms of people I adore and want to make happy, so here we are. Given my decidedly odd taste is secret crushes, I decided to mix it up a bit, and create my top Freaky Fictional Five, my list of really odd fictional guys upon whom I crush. The most interesting part, to me, is that it includes MORE THAN ONE MAN NAMED HANS:

1. Hans Landa in Inglourious Basterds – I know. I KNOW. I’m Jewish. This dude plays a HOMICIDAL NAZI in the movie…and yet. AND YET. He’s oddly charming, and beguiling and speaks, by my count, four languages in the film. I…yeah. The heart wants what it wants, people.

2. Turtle on Entourage – Because he seems like he’d be appreciative, you know? But...then again, he’s dating Jamie Lynn Sigler, so he’s probably all high on himself now, and thinks he’s better than me, and I’d be all, “we ARE TOO going to see New Moon tonight,” and he’d be all, “the Knicks game is on, brah, nothing I can do” and adjust his stupid Yankees hat, and then I’d get mad, like, hello? I’m not your brah, and furthermore, IS THAT A NEW GODDAMN YANKEES HAT, AND OMFG HOW MANY SNEAKERS CAN ONE GROWN MAN OWN, OHHHHHH, DON’T YOU START WITH ME ON THAT DRESS, I NEEDED THAT DRESS FOR WORK, THAT’S RIGHT, ONE OF US HAS TO WORK, OH REALLY? REALLY? I WASN’T AWARE MOOCHING OFF OF VINCE COUNTED AS ‘WORK,’ NO NO MY BAD, REALLY. GO. HIS COUCH AND EVER-DWINDLING WEED SUPPLY CLEARLY NEED YOU. Whatever, Turtle. Don’t call me.

3. Heath-Ledger-as-Joker.

4. Jason Segel, specifically when he’s playing the lecherous, bearded, tracksuit-wearing friend in Knocked Up.

5. Alan Rickman, specifically when playing Hans Gruber or Snape. Or , you know, both. Wow. HUH. Now THERE’s some creepy fanfic for you.

What about you? Top Freaky Fictional Five? GO!

Happy, happy

I’ve never really been much of a dweller.

By this, I do not mean that I am challenged by the act of living in a specific location, choosing instead to wander the country like a hobo named Snaggletooth Mary. (Alexa? Is that…is that a real person?) No, what I mean that when shit gets me down, I do my very best not to let it KEEP me down. I drive J crazy with this (in a…hopefully endearing way?), always trying to find the bright side like a damn Disney Princess. I’ve been having a bit of an icky week, and I try here—and in life, really—to focus on the good things. So indulge me, just for a post, in my Disney Princess ways, would you please?

1. My return to my beloved hobby, making useless Venn diagrams out of songs and movie lines. Here's the latest:



2. The Anya Marina cover version of T.I.'s "Whatever You Like," a rap song that I secretly lip-sync to while driving, and by "lip-sync," I mean "yes, there is lip-synching, but also, butt-in-seat dance-bouncing and the miming of the line 'gas up the jet for you tonight,' because, sure, I totally know what that looks like, considering I don't even know how to pump gas in a car." The original is awesome and raunchy, but this gorgeous (yes, really) version--which is slower, stripped-down, guitar-driven, and sung by a sweet-voiced girl--is even better. And...dirtier, somehow.

3. This picture:



4. My new perfect flat brown boots, which I got on CRAZY SALE.

5. The song "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers, which Ali brought into my life. (Here's the video, in the event you, you know, don't implicitly trust my music taste:)



6. The fact that I have a husband who asks the right questions.

7. This site. (Its title is NSFW, but the site itself is lovely; full of happy-making pictures and quotes.)

8. This heartbreakingly beautiful picture, which I found on said site. (Which reminds me: Thank you, Veterans.)

9. The fact that I have been petrified to make challah (a type of braided Jewish bread, is, I guess the best way to describe it) since, well, ever, and I'm pleased to say that I? HAVE MASTERED IT. I shall now buy this shirt to wear while baking it each week. Look! It includes glitter:



10. Stovetop popcorn. (It's so much better than microwave! Why was I not informed?!)

Ahh. Feeling better already. So, what's been putting a smile on your face this week? Come on, spill it! It'll make you (and me!) happy. :)

The Radiator Rap: Because I got the music in me.

So, it appears I took something for granted in my last post, and that is that most people have either experienced or know about heating systems in old apartment buildings. Many of you were mystified--flummoxed, even--that we have precisely zero say in the temperature of our apartment, and asked me to explain it. And I tried--I really did--to write a straightforward, explanatory post about radiators. But hey! You know what's boring? Straightforward, explanatory posts about radiators. You know what's (hopefully) NOT boring, though? RAP SONGS ABOUT THEM.

Yes, seeing as I haven't worked on a rap since Duck This Shot: The iPhone Rap, I figured it was time to give it another go, and attempt to enliven the generally staid world of heating systems. And so I set about working on my rap...

...which was interrupted by the arrival of the Penis Snuggie.

J had told me earlier in the day that he had something "awesome" to bring home, so I was eagerly awaiting a bucket of cash, a new camera, or possibly, a pie. It was, in fact, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Snuggie.

Which, as Twitter swiftly informed me, prominently featured some found porn:



Many people weighed in, and long story short, I have now garnered the nickname Mother Teresa of the Scrotum Blankets. Thank you, Slynnro. Anyway, this (UNDOUBTEDLY educational) rap required photographs to illustrate my point, and so I decided to document it while wearing the Snuggie. Because: Snuggie.

Without any further ado....THE RADIATOR RAP, Y'ALL:

City living is the illest,
Ain’t no better place to be.
But today I’m gonna talk to you
About apartment heat.

Pre-war buildings are the shit, you know
They’re sturdy and so spacious
Higher ceilings, wider doorways,
So good if your bum’s curvaceous.



Yet they have one awful feature,
Like that King in Gladiator.
Ruinin’ it for everyone,
Is heat by radiator.



The steam comes up a’clankin,
Makin my crib hot and dry.
A thermostat? You playin’!
Or just maybe very high.



Can’t control a radiator,
Ain’t no dials there, or valves.
They’re old as dirt, they’re aged,
Like mah granny with her salves.



My skin is oh-so-scaly,
Grody hair in a bandana.
My legs feel just like my pet snake.
(His name’s Tony Montana!)



I gotta fight the battle,
Not with whittled shivs or guns.
I got another plan, you see,
To make the dry heat DONE.



Desperate measures here are what we need,
This situation’s dire.
Gonna call my rhinestone guy,
Bling out my humidifier.

Aw, Sheet.

Last week was hectic for me, filled with a gala, brunch with friends, lovingly stalking Ali and her crew, and of course, a spirited fight with a pervert con man-cab driver. I’d write about it all, but, well, it’s pretty self-explanatory. What I REALLY need to talk about are my damn sheets.

And really, you know what seems like a good idea? Fleece sheets. I mean, who doesn’t love fleece? It’s soft! It’s cuddly! And last, but certainly not least, it’s fleecy! It seems perfect for bedtime! J and I had gotten a fleece sheet set (TONGUE TWISTER!) a while back, and given the past (particularly chilly) few days, we decided to bust them out the other night.

This would prove to be the biggest mistake of our lives. Well, this week, anyway.

Fleece sheets, you see, are a good idea in theory only, much like low-fat cheese, balloon-related hoaxes, and that one time I had four (4) tequila shots at a bar and decided to go to visit the bathroom in said bar, located down a steep flight of Deathly Bruise-Inducing Steps, while wearing stiletto boots. Ah, college.

But back to our sheets, and with it, the collective idiocy of me and my husband:

By way of background, our apartment building is full of a particularly ornery breed of Crotchety Elderly Folk. This carries with it many implications, but chief among them for this tale, that our building is kept at the approximate temperature of hell for most of the year, so as to quell their whining. (At least about the cold.) Like the morons that we are, we momentarily forgot about this, and put the fleece sheets on our bed. I felt a vague sense of dread, but shook it off, because hooray! New sheets!

Later that night, I donned a pair of velour pants and a tank, and hopped into bed. Somewhere around 1 a.m., I woke up, feeling trapped. Or perhaps, more accurately, ACTUALLY TRAPPED. NOT UNLIKE A DOLPHIN IN A TUNA NET. Because as it turns out, velour and fleece? LIKE VELCRO. Half asleep, I woke J to assist me by sort of…kicking in his general vicinity with my bound legs. “These pillowcases!” he moaned. “There is no cool spot!” I agreed as enthusiastically as one can while still basically in REM sleep, and he helped to free me from my not-so-metaphorical shackles. We fell back asleep, but I then woke up an hour later, sweaty and uncomfortable. The sheets were cooking me alive. As I tossed around, unsuccessfully trying to find a comfortable place, J woke up and whispered, “It is like sleeping on a bear. Not a rug, M. A living, hibernating bear.” Which then devolved into an impromptu game of "What Else Is It Like Sleeping On?" featuring entries such as "Tony Manero's leisure suit, apres disco," "one of Bill Belichik's grody sweatshirts," "Barry Gibb's chest hair," and "OH MY HELL, IS IT REALLY 2:27 A.M.? WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING?!"

Somehow we made it through the night, and this is the part where you think I tell you all about how we immediately changed the sheets in the morning, right? Because it should be a foregone conclusion? Yeah, well, due to a combination of laziness, stupidity, and a secret but earnest desire to get a “full sheet wearing” (my ludicrous concept and phrase, thank you) out of the damned things, we’re still living with them, days later.

It is, at this point, a war of attrition.

The sheets remain, but we’ve abandoned the pillows entirely, choosing instead to rest our heads on the (cotton) pillow shams. Each night, J kicks the top sheet so far down that it’s basically on the floor, and I kind of wrap myself in the bedspread, eggroll-like. I don’t know what we’re hoping for...that the sheets disintegrate from the combined power of our hatred for them? That they’ll magically replace themselves? That we’ll spontaneously enter a new Ice Age tomorrow, and there we’ll sit, wrapped smugly in our aggressively warm bedding? Whatever it is, I hope to god it happens soon, because the end of the "full sheet wearing" cannot come soon enough.

Show me someone who says they WOULDN’T watch this, and I’ll show you a liar.

The other night, I attended an open school night for one of the places we may be sending T next year. I was sitting next to a friend of mine, and amidst the talk of class projects and school philosophies, we kind of stopped paying attention, and started talking about the things we were doing during the week. She then told me that she was going to be attending an adult gymnastics class the following night. Until that point, neither of us had known about the other's, uh, Gymnast Past, but she told me that one of our other friends—who also used to be a gymnast-—was going to the class with her, and she told me to come, too. I had trained as a gymnast for over seven years (and it is a total coincidence—I swear—that I mentioned it the other day). It was a huge part of my life for such a long time, and, well, an honest-to-god talent that I kind of gave up on, once I hit high school and had no time to keep it up.

I proceeded to spend the next 24 hours excitedly bouncing around, and mentally picking out my outfit for class. I had these grand plans of donning creepy-ass American Apparel-type workout gear, but when the time came, I actually began thinking STRATEGICALLY, which is perhaps the most pathetic admission I’ve made in recent memory. I told myself about how it was time to Focus and Get Serious about my Craft, and so I put on a sensible gymnastics outfit, one that was short on charm, but long on practicality: sports bra, black tank, and black capri yoga pants. No hot pink skintight AmApp harem pants for me.

Sometimes, I feel like such a disappointment.

We arrived at the class, nervous and excited, and immediately began expending our nervous excitement by essentially harassing the tiny teenage gymnasts who were on their way out, staring at us curiously. It was bad, by which I mean, we LITERALLY SAID things like “we used to be good, tooooooo! Enjoy your talent while you cannnnnn!” Under the guidance of our teacher, we stretched, did some basic tumbling, and then we began actually attempting to do our old tricks, and half-jokingly-yet-not-really performing portions of our old routines. It became clear that letting 15 years elapse since your last gymnastics session—-while inevitably painful the next day--does not, in fact, kill the muscle memory required to execute a back handspring. We all had a fantastic time, and unanimously decided to return this week, and it was right around this time that I realized this could totally be a TV show.

Think about it: Take a bunch of aging former gymnasts-- definitely past their prime, but still talented-- and place them in a competitive reality-type show, wherein we attempt to regain our flexibility, relearn our (DATED) routines, and maybe, just maybe, fit into our old competition leotards once again. I’m not quite sure what the winner would get (toaster full of cash from Crate & Barrel?), or who would serve as judges (Dream Team: Mary Lou Retton, Bela Karolyi, Bobby Knight), but I do believe the show will be called Backflipping the Clock. Although I'm totally, TOTALLY open to suggestions.

(Come on, you’d watch it, right?)

Snotty People

This past week was a milestone of sorts: It marked the first time both kids were sick at the same time. I know! It IS weird that they don’t make a Hallmark card for that. I’ll spare you the details, but in summary, we had a snotty, feral baby with a high fever and four molars breaking through simultaneously, as well as a toddler with a cold, who was exceedingly surly and prone to statements such as “I need soda now. It will help my heavy nose feel better. I love you, Mommy.” Which, I mean, I don’t even know what to say to that. Except that “Heavy Nose” is totally going on the list of potential singles for my hypothetical band, the Rapturous Zipper Protuberances, so named for the best spam subject line I have ever received.

I mention all of this because, well, I love both of my children dearly, but hot damn, BOTH of them sick at the same time was…difficult. J and I kept eyeing each other suspiciously if the other so much as looked at the front door: “What are you doing?” “Taking out the recycling! Jeez!” “THEN WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR PASSPORT, ASSHOLE?” “I WAS JUST INSPECTING IT! NOT FLEEING THIS PLAGUE-RIDDEN HOUSE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!”

Fine, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, but it was a bit stressful.

And you know, I tried, I really did, to find some useful ideas online for how to distract miserable sick kids, and make them more comfortable, but they only responded to my well-intentioned YET INSIPID ministrations (“juice? extra pillow?”) by escalating their moaning. I realized the guidance sucked, threw the metaphorical playbook out the window, and…behold!

I share with you here my patented (read: not patented) five-step program, What To Do If Your Children Are Sick At The Same Time:

1. Deal With Their Noses. Because My God. -- Difficulty Level: Easy to Medium, depending on your puppetry skills

Hey, you know what sucks about cold-having, teething babies that don’t know how to blow their noses? Everything! But more specifically, the fact that, if your baby is anything like mine, he/she flails wildly about if they so much as glimpse the tissue approaching their wee, raw nose, and then! THEN! Heaven forbid you actually make tissue-to-nose contact, they act as though the tissue is CRAFTED FROM PRESSED BATTERY ACID. COATED IN FIRE ANTS. ILL-TEMPERED ONES. And let’s not forget the aforementioned “heavy-nosed” three-year old, who kept sighing and generally looking like a sad-eyed Precious Moments figurine whenever I suggested that perhaps he could entertain the thought of blowing his nose.

My solution came to me while giving them one in an endless series of baths: I was cleaning their faces with their washcloth puppets (you know, like these) ,talking in a ridiculous and embarrassing puppet voice, and I realized they were not making a PEEP. I pressed my luck, quickly tickling them with said puppet washcloths, and then, while they were still giggling, attacking their noses. Miraculously, it worked.

I kept the gig up, assigning each of them a washcloth puppet Specifically Designated for the Gross Cleaning of Noses. The distraction of the puppet was effective, earth-friendly (like I’d give a badger’s ass in this situation, but still), and afforded me the opportunity to work on my puppet voice. Which in case you’re wondering, sounds like a Barney/Yoda/Grover hybrid. Everybody wins! Including the planet! YOU’RE WELCOME, EARTH.

2. Sacrifice Yourself on the Altar of Dignity, aka, play The Tent Game -- Difficulty Level: Medium to Hard, depending upon ease of tent procurement and relative size of your butt.

My kids were whiny and listless, so I figured that perhaps breaking out some of the toys they hadn’t played with in a while might perk them up. They have this tiny pop-up tent thing which hasn’t seen the light of day in MONTHS. They asked me to play in it with them, but alas, my ass couldn’t fit through the tent door. (In my defense, it’s REALLY SMALL. The tent door, that is. Not my ass. CLEARLY.) Naturally, they thought this was hilarious, and begged me to try to get in again. And so it was that I spent the better part of an hour dramatically and loudly lamenting the size of my posterior precluding me from getting through the door. Occasionally, I’d mix it up and have them try to shove me through, kind of like a circus elephant into a train car, which they found humorous.

3. Godzilla Baby Wars --Difficulty Level: Easy

Build elaborate block tower with older child. Call “Oh, GodZILLaaaaaa!” to baby child. Predictable results, easily repeated, perfect for those run-out-the-clock situations.

4. Putting To Use Oft-Overlooked Hobbies -- Difficulty Level: Easy, for YOU.

My friends, I was a gymnast back in the day, and wouldn’t you know it, children love watching people do somersaults and cartwheels. And YES, I may have done about 73 of them over the past few days, but dammit, the sick kids were happy. You may not have been a gymnast, but perhaps you know magic tricks? Juggling? Drawing cartoon characters? Trust me, there’s something to entertain them. Just put away the 12-sided die.

5. Bubbles! -- Difficulty Level: Easy

Oh my god, LIFESAVER. You know that scene in Knocked Up where Paul Rudd is all, “I wish I liked ANYTHING as much as my kids like bubbles”? It’s kind of true.

Fortunately, they both seem to be on the mend, but I know at the first sign of the next round of sniffles, the tiny, dignity-destroying tent is coming out again. Sigh...Whatever works, right?

Wednesday: The day I imitate Whitney Port, and steal my kids' hair products.

1. I have been watching --with an appropriate amount of shame-- The Hills and The City for...well, a while now. And you know what? I accept the fast and loose definition of the shows' versions of "reality" as an added level of hilarity. (Particularly in the case of The City, which bears only the faintest of passing resemblances to living and working in the actual city of New York.) However, something that happened on this week's episode of The City that made even me say, "forgive me, but this is just too much. And also, it's AMAZING."

As you may or may not know, Whitney is trying to start a fashion line. At one point during the episode, we catch a glimpse of Whitney's "sketches," which are--without hyperbole--the worst, most unskilled renderings in the history of anything, ever, and I include therein the drawing of a snowman in a top hat I drew with a ballpoint pen between my toes, drunk, at 3 am one night during college JUST TO SEE IF I COULD.

The point here is that her drawing of shorts? WAS A PICTURE OF TWO SQUARES. ATTACHED. THAT'S IT. And lo, it was HILARIOUS, because everyone is taking her seriously, and talking about what she Needs To Do For The Line, when in fact what she needs to do is back slowwwwly away from the sketchbook. It's...it's important to take stock of yourself and your abilities, which is why I personally have shied away from careers in professional dance, cleaning, and... trigonometry. It all reminded me very much of the scene in Not Another Teen Movie where Jake is talking to Janie about her masterpiece of a painting, describing its beauty, its soulful qualities, and then you see it... and it's a stick figure with a smiley face. I've taken the liberty of reimagining Whitney's sketchbook for you here, based on actual drawing discussed and displayed on the show: 2. Admittedly, humor is subjective, but I was unable to breathe when watching this SNL skit this past weekend. The dipping did me in:



3. I have a post up over at BeautyHacks, and I'm kind of in mad love with the product. (Also? Kind of touched that the creators of the product found the post, and reached out to me via Twitter to thank me. INTERNET MAAAAGIC.)

4. I need help with an admittedly insignificant problem: Does anyone know of a product for hair that gets knotty incredibly easily once the weather turns fall-like? Because the minute I step outside, my hair becomes an untenable rats' nest, and my desperate solution involved stealing my children's detangling spray, and while I am enjoying both the apple scent and its tear-free properties, I am hoping that there is perhaps a more sophisticated answer out there, by which I mean, "a bottle that does not prominently feature a freaky looking purple cartoon octopus." Help.

5. I needed five things, because I'm delightfully OCD like that. Uh...I like pie.