It's good I'm not prone to hyperbole, or anything.

I love our neighborhood for many reasons, but one thing that I absolutely adore is the abundance of local commercials on television. I don't know if this is a regional thing, but what I'm referring to is these ads of wretched quality that look as though they were shot on a budget of twelve dollars with a video camera from 1992. The local commercial I am about to show you is...well, by FAR the "best" (i.e., most hilariously awful) of the bunch.

Much like the Pale-Headed Brush Finch of Ecuador, however, the commercial is very rare indeed. When I'm lucky enough to catch it, it's never in its entirety, and it's nowhere to be found online. BELIEVE ME, I HAVE TRIED TO FIND IT, and publicly lamented the fact that I had failed.



Until now, people. UNTIL NOW. Fortuitously, I had my Flip out because I was working on something for a friend, and was juuuuust shutting it down when I caught an airing of the commercial. I hit pause, snatched the video camera back up, and finally, FINALLY captured the most amazing thing to ever hit the airwaves 'round these parts. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.



(DO you also have godawful local commercials? Links, people. I NEED LINKS!)

This one goes out to anyone who was ever punished as a teenager. Or says "haha" a lot. Or compares themselves to a rubber band.

Yvonne is, quite frankly, one of my very favorite people that I've met since I began blogging. We became fast friends a few years ago, after we bonded over the term "mongerie," a made-up word I ascribed to the lacy garb favored by Precious the Monkey on the soap opera, Passions. And while that may very well be the most nonsensical sentence I've ever typed, the point is this: I love Y (and can't wait to see her in just a few weeks).



We were recently IM'ing and in so doing, took a trip down memory lane, with a detour at "OMFG MY PARENTS ARE PUNISHING ME, WHYYYYY GOD?" Road. Join us, why don't you? We can't be the only ones who did stuff like this:

Yvonne: haha!!! we're chatting AND texting; it's like we're 15!

me: MOM STOP PICKING UP THE PHONE

Yvonne: HHAHAHHAHA. Do you know how many times I got busted from my mom picking up the phone and finding out stuff?

me: ME TOO!

Yvonne: that's how I got busted for smoking at a neighbor's house.

me: Hahahaaa

Yvonne: because I was telling my friend “when I go to Diane's we... you know... starts with an ‘s’.” And my mom was on the phone and I got BUUUSSTED.

me: *click * I HEAR YOU, MOM!!

Yvonne: I heard her hang up right after I said "not have SEX. SMOKE." And I felt like I couldn't breathe. Because I KNEW.

me: oh, lordy. that's the worst

Yvonne: totally

me: the moment b/w being found out and KNOWING you're gonna be punished. torture!

Yvonne: yes! I would turn white and sweat.

me: also: some nervous farting (just me?)

Yvonne: ahahdsah no, not just you

me: (whew!)

Yvonne: also trying to act REALLY SWEET AND NICE when you finally see your parents. Like "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. I loooooooooooove youuuuuu."

me: "want me to cook dinnerrrrr?”

Yvonne: just kind of feeling them out, thinking maybe you won't be in trouble after all. "can I clean the house for you?"

me: haha. YES EXACTLY

Yvonne: "because I LOVE YOU"

me: "do you need a back rub? peeled grapes? someone to fan you with palm fronds?"

Yvonne: hahahahha. you totally know. And sometimes they'd let you go all day

me: oh, yes, for sure.

Yvonne: and you thought you had gotten away with it

me: the TORTURE

Yvonne: hah!!!!

me: I am cracking up remembering. and then I'd flounce off to my room and write in my journal. and possibly do a little poetry

Yvonne: hahahah. yes!!!

me: my poetry was the WORST EVER

Yvonne: I'd get on my knees and promise Jesus to NEVER DO IT AGAIN

me: oh! also! That reminds me…I forgot. I'd pray that they wouldn't punish me; if they were pulling that "dragging out the suspense" shit.

Yvonne: hahaa

me: "I'm sorry, God. Please don't let them punish me for hanging out with The Boys Who Smoke. I'll remember to say my blessings before meals."

Yvonne: I would totally do that!!

me: pray? or SAY you'd pray? oh god: also, I'd say things like this. I SWEAR: "Mom and Dad? I am like a RUBBER BAND. The harder you pull me in one direction, the harder I will FLY BACK THE OTHER WAY" (I swear, I said that)

Yvonne: ahhahahahlhaslkahahaha THAT'S THE BEST ONE EVER

me: like, who was I? A Real World character?

Yvonne: I was too scared of burning in hell, or, the "Rod" to say stuff like that. but oh my god, I can't stop laughing

me: A RUBBER BAND.

Oh, Bollocks.

Yesterday started off like any other. Around mid-morning, however, the day became exceptionally amazing, in that J surprised me with a ticket to Chicago, for BlogHer. I hadn’t been planning on going this year for a number of reasons, but I was so touched, and things fell so rapidly—and miraculously—into place immediately thereafter that I pretty much had no choice but so accept my husband’s amazing gift. So, yeah. I’ll be there. (Come say hi, okay?)

I was annoyingly gleeful on account of this turn of events, and all but skipped my way uptown after work, stopping off to pick up some fabric…notions (?) for the dress I’m having made for my brother’s wedding. And as fun and incredible as the morning was, here’s where the day takes a turn for the worse. And by “worse” I mean “scrotum-filled.”

I was on the subway, and was writing an email to Miss Whoorl. The subway, you see, is where I do much of my email correspondence, as it makes me look extremely busy, and thus acts as a deterrent towards the advances of hobos or the ubiquitous breakdancing panhandler children. I was able to snag a seat, but the train quickly grew crowded, and a gentleman took a spot standing in front of me. The train emptied out, and I became dimly aware that there were plenty of seats, and yet the man was still standing in front of me. "How curious," I thought, and went back to concentrating on my email. The train hit a bump, and I, startled, glanced up from my email to find myself eye-to-ball with THE MAN’S JUNK. He was wearing a long windbreaker, but the sudden movement of the train caused it to temporarily drift, thus exposing his open fly. And, you know, balls. I sent the email off, and hurriedly began a frantic one to my husband:



However, lest he think that I was making a big deal over nothing, I took a picture to better illustrate my plight. And YES, I realize that sort of makes me totally gross, too, but I took it from a side angle so you couldn't REALLY see the horror with which I was, again, eye-to-ball, AND I did cover up the Offending Area.



(Like my little caption balloon? I HIGHLY recommend the Photogene app.)

I was shocked. Speechless. I was...well, the email, I think, really shows you the full range of emotions with which I was grappling. Was this a total error? Was this completely intentional? I was frozen with indecision as to what I should say or do.

Well.

See how the right side of his windbreaker is really much longer than the left? Yeah. It was then I noticed that he was...um, touching hisself, through the pocket of the windbreaker.

I looked around the totally silent train, and, filled with rage--and also, nausea--said the lovely words no one ever really thinks they'll need to say to another person in public:

"EXCUSE ME. SIR, CAN YOU PLEASE STOP J*RKING OFF IN FRONT OF MY FACE?"

The funny thing is, he was totally unaffected. I mean, the ENTIRE train car looked at him with a mixture of shock and disgust, and he DIDN'T EVEN ZIP UP. He took a few steps away from me, and just kind of looked heavenward, like I was talking to some OTHER publicly m@sturbating pervert, or something.

It being New York, no one really wanted to deal with him, myself included, so I just tried to get a picture of his face to send to the NYPD (they have a task force for this kind of thing). It's a blurry profile shot, but I don't really care, I just want as many people to see him as possible:



People, I am FILLED with questions. I mean, aside from the big one--why did I call a pervert "sir"?--I am kind of curious about the act in general. It takes--pardon the pun--a lot of balls to do something like this. How did he decide to go through with it? At what point does your life become so sad that you wake up one morning and think "You know what? I think I'm gonna just go for it today, and start m@sturbating on the subway. Let's see where it goes." Do you think people won't notice? Or do you WANT them to notice? Are you planning on FINISHING THE JOB THERE? OH DEAR GOD.

Frankly, the whole thing is both horrifying and exhausting to think about, and as such, I'm just going to turn things over to Andy & Co., while I shower for the 758th time.

There's Something Strange in the Neighborhood. Well, Really, Just This Apartment.

It would appear, my friends, that we have a ghost.

And, yes, I can only assume Haunted Apartment is venturing deep into shark jumping territory, blog-wise, but hear me out.

Do you perchance recall, a few months back, when I recounted the chilling tale of how Lo’s musical toy ball—which had been clearly placed in a very specific spot in the living room-—mysteriously not only turned itself on, but FOUND ITS WAY INTO THE BABY’S CRIB IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT?

As I indicated at the time, I believed the explanation to be that this could have been the work of a malevolent baby demon, or some sort of murderous clown, but PROBABLY a sleepwalking toddler. You know, Occam’s Razor, and all that. Well, sucks to your Razor, Occam. WE ARE ALL HAUNTED AND SHIT UP IN THIS PIECE.

Ever since that fateful winter night, we’ve noticed an increased incidence of, shall we say, strange occurrences involving the children’s toys. Mechanical wind-up train slowly rolling itself out of the room containing my two SLEEPING kids? Check. Activity table commencing enthusiastic rendition of the Alphabet Song in the living room while we are ALL in the kitchen? Check. Children's books randomly appearing in strange places other than their shelves? CHECK.

Do you think I’m kidding? Exaggerating, perhaps? I assure you I am not. Why, allow me to share with you the discussion J and I just had moments ago:

J: What are you writing about?

Me: I’m telling everyone about the ghost.

J: Whatever, just don’t anger it.

AND SCENE.

Please note that he’s normally the level-headed one in this relationship.

We really can't think of a logical explanation here OTHER than ghost, and yet, no one is more surprised than I that we’re kind of taking the haunting in stride. After all, some of my supernatural fears over the years have included, but are not limited to, portraits –of seventeenth century despots OR OTHERS--coming alive, demonic possession of dolls and/or action figures, and zombification via freak zoo monkey bite accident. J claims he is generally unfazed by the ghost, since he is, in his words, “familiar with that world, with magic and the occult, on account of [his] reading the Harry Potter series in its entirety.”

(My husband, ladies and gentlemen!)

Our general approach has been less Ghostbusty (And…now I’ve found my perfect name for an adult film geared towards the undead), and more like that of solicitous inkeepers. “Hi therrrrre,” we’ll trill nervously when the toys, you know, come alive. “We aren’t afraid of youuuuu! We know you mean us no harrrrrrm!” We’ve mulled over the idea of telling the Unseen Presence to leave, but clearly that might just serve to piss it right the hell off, and then you just know I’ll be dealing with an orgy of homicidal Elmo dolls and really, who needs that?

I would love to hear similar tales (we CAN'T be the only people who've experienced eerie shit like this, can we? CAN WE?), as well as your ideas for ways in which I can conduct subtle exorcisms, but if, in the interim, I hear a growly woman’s voice inquiring as to whether or not I’m a god, I WILL SAY YES.

Key moments of my Tuesday, in the style of the Harper's Index

10: Seconds spent reciting a specific and obscure line from The Lost Boys at the request of my husband.

22: Hours subsequently spent reminiscing about The World Series of Pop Culture, lamenting the fact that it no longer exists, and drafting a list of both potential names for and members OF my hypothetical team, should VH1 ever bring it back.

1: Author’s name that sent me into fits of giggles when I saw it. (Ann Brashares, author of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. Because, like…DUDE. BRA SHARES. HAAAAAA.)

2: Prayers uttered. One for the success of my dear friend Casey’s surgery, and the other for my newest obsession, MeMe, to start a Twitter account, which would possibly contain tweets like, "At Dunkin' Donuts. Absconding with Munchkins. Also, sugar packets." and "Eating hearty dinner of celery on treadmill. 97% incline. Weeping." What? STOP JUDGING MY SECOND PRAYER. PEOPLE HAVE PRAYED FOR DUMBER THINGS, YOU KNOW.

.002: Nanoseconds considering starting said Twitter account myself, only to decide against it, as I fear her greatly. (HOW AWESOME WOULD IT HAVE BEEN, THOUGH?)

1: New dresses purchased, after wearing a (VERY UNINTENTIONALLY REVEALING) wrap dress sans tank top underneath, thus affording everyone on the subway a splendid view of my bra. I went to the nearest clothing store after arriving at work, and found a $10 camisole, but as I waited to pay for it, spied an adorable dress on sale for $20. While technically double the price, and completely unneeded/not the reason I went in, its purchase in place of the tank top was easily rationalized. Hooray for Fashion Math! And preventing any successive accidental flashings!

100%: Mood improvement--after the embarrassment of the revealing wrap dress-- upon the purchase of the new, modest dress, AND seeing that the Mango Shorts I saw there last week were still in the store. Hee!



75,832: Approximate total number of times I’ve watched both this video of Ali’s son Josh singing along to a song he doesn’t actually know, and the video below, which…well, I can’t explain how hard it made me laugh without resorting to clichés, so I'm therefore forced to say that I was laughing so hard that it was audible, and I wet myself while watching it, snorting and also crying, but in addition, rolling on the floor, ostensibly to find my ass, inasmuch as my laughter was so intense that said ass was no longer attached to my person.

Not to build it up, or anything.

(And yes, I know many people have already seen this, but in the event you haven’t, take a few minutes now and watch it. My favorite part? “What the effing crap? That angel guy just felt me up!”)



7: Shades of red I turned after sharing with a few friends my deepest, darkest of all my nerd secrets: The fact that many years ago, I won a Periodic Table of Elements Bee. Perhaps that alone wouldn’t have been so bad, but no, I had to go and divulge the fact that I had mnemonic devices to recall the elements. (e.g., “Iron=Fe, because you Feel strong when you pump iron.” WHY DO I STILL REMEMBER THIS, LET ALONE SHARE IT WITH PEOPLE, OMFG.)

4: Sentences in an email response from one of those friends that just about sum up the whole incident:

[Metalia], I'm going to delete your last email. I will then go into my 'Deleted Items' folder and permanently delete the email. I will then go into my 'Sent Items' folder and delete this email with my response to your email. I suggest everyone else do the same, and, for your benefit, we should never speak of this Periodic Table Bee again.

My Girl

I remember telling myself over and over that I didn’t care one way or the other. Throughout the entire seemingly interminable ride on that rainy January morning, I repeated “health-y, health-y, health-y” over and over again in my mind like a mantra, in time with the windshield wipers.

And yet, when the ultrasound technician informed us that I was carrying a (healthy) baby girl, I was shocked to find myself tearing up from happiness and, um, a tiny bit of fear.



The thing is, I was totally prepared for another boy. For some reason, I had always envisioned myself as a mom to a houseful of them. I regularly babysat my neighbor’s sons growing up, I have two younger brothers, had a ton of guy friends throughout school, and even at that point, I was outnumbered by J and T, but was totally fine with it. I knew how to deal with boys; I was used to it.

A girl required, in the barf-inducing parlance of Corporate America, a paradigm shift. I mean, diaper changes alone would likely involve a complex mapping system, but fast forward a few years, and OMG WHAT ABOUT MEAN GIRLS AND HIGH SCHOOL AND AIEEEEE. I kind of felt like hyperventilating every time I began to think about A Girl, and all she'd entail.



But she was born, and much like labor itself becomes a hazy, distant memory, all the navel-gazing faded away.



She was...well, damn easy to love.



The experience of having one kid and then another in fairly rapid succession is interesting; you feel vaguely guilty for taking time away from kid #1 because of kid #2, AND know full well that you’re not being the same parent to kid # 2 that you were to kid #1 BECAUSE HEY, NOW THERE ARE TWO OF THEM. NO ONE TELLS YOU THAT, PEOPLE.

However, I must say that one of the best parts of the past year with her in our lives has been watching the two kids grow from indifference (T) and oblivion (Lo), to this…



To this:



The other thing I love? Realizing just how different they are, and how good it is for each of them. I can't speak for anyone else, but when I was pregnant the second time, I kind of just pictured myself giving birth to a clone of T, in both looks and personality. From day one, T favored me; Lo TOTALLY prefers her dad.



T was a cautious baby, slow to do the physical stuff (rolling over, crawling), but was talking very early. Lo says only about five words, but she doesn't stop moving. She is my daredevil, and doesn't think twice about attempting to swan dive off of our bed. I call her my magpie, since she tries to put EVERYthing in her mouth, particularly if it's shiny. She brings out T's silly side, and he calms her, uh, Knievelishness. They're a hell of a lot of fun on their own, but together, they're even better.

Looking back at my favorite pictures of Lo from the past year, I find myself tearing up again, like I did when the reality of A Girl coming into our family first became a reality.







Because, yes, there's still a part of me that is PETRIFIED about the prospect of raising a little girl in what I feel is (for me) the "right" way...One that allows for pink dress-up gowns, glittery nonsense and dolls...



... but which will not ultimately lead her down the path that starts with clear heels, and ends with her competing on Bret Michaels' Rock of Love: Nursing Home of Nookie.

The other part of me, however, gets weepy--as I did back then--out of sheer joy. Because, quite simply, I love this kid so, so much. She's a good, cheerful and...SPIRITED baby, and I'm thankful she's mine. No longer just A Girl, but My Girl.



Happy birthday to you, my daredevil, my magpie baby, my Dancing Queen.

Dancing Queen from metalia on Vimeo.

The sheer randomness of this post's content preclude a clever title.

Okay, SERIOUSLY, you guys? I am full-on obsessed with the crazy lady in the NY Times article. I know. I didn't shut up about her on Twitter. I couldn't stop talking about her on Facebook. And I TRIED, I really did, to put her out of my mind, but she's like some sort of evil Siren. For those of you NOT breathlessly following my every online move--which is to say, all of you-- I refer to...well, let's call her Cookie Monster ("CM"). I don't want to write her name, because she strikes me as a relentless self-Googler, who will, if she finds me, likely take a cab over here and crush my beloved Skor bars whilst force-feeding me alfalfa and/or beating me with actual licorice whips.

In short: Like many people, CM takes issue with the obesity epidemic in America today, and strives to care deeply about the foods her kids eat. For some, "care deeply" equates to, say, avoiding high fructose corn syrup, or seeking out organic products. In CM's case, it involves a cavalcade of unintentional hilarity, including, but not limited to, (allegedly) expletive-laden rants towards her kids' school board, openly calling Santa Claus fat/waging a battle against Girl Scout cookies, and my personal favorite, absconding with the syrup and sprinkles from a YMCA ice cream table, resulting in the police being called. I spent the better part of my Tuesday evening reading up on this woman--who admits she doesn't really eat breakfast or lunch-- and she is...well, AWFUL. I could go off on a tear here about my fears and concerns related to raising kids with healthy self images and blah di blah, but that's been done a million times over by people far more eloquent than me, so instead I'll focus on the Awe-Inspiring Crazy that is a woman who flees with ice cream toppings, thereby incurring the ire of the NYPD.

Another part of the article that stuck with me? When we learn that the PTA in her old town all but asked her to move. This is how I know I'm a blogger, because I was all, "But WHYYYYY?" I would LOVE if this woman was (tangentially) in my life. Can you imagine the material she'd provide? I'd be SALIVATING, like, "Is that your best shot? Stealing sprinkles? Bah! Come on, crazy lady! I know you can do better! Give me more! MORE, I say!" Which reminds me--it truly saddens me that I didn't have a blog 112 years ago when I was superficially acquainted with a man who, among other things, lived in a studio apartment with a promiscuous Russian man, was deeply involved in Renaissance Faire circles (specifically, jousting), had a picture of himself laying sideways IN HIS PAJAMAS on his desk, and kind of briefly stalked me. Harmlessly. I think.

In other news, J is getting the new iPhone shortly (from work! I KNOW!), and as a current Blackberry owner, is exceedingly nervous about learning to type on the new device. As such, he wanted to practice typing, and asked if he could borrow my phone to do so. I went to the kitchen to make a grilled cheese sandwich (BREAAAAAD! CHEEEEEESE! Take THAT, crazy junk food lady!), and returned a few minutes later to find the TV on and him furiously typing. I inquired whether he was writing an email, only to be informed that he was, but more specifically, he was "writing a stream-of-consciousness plot summary of part of Mighty Ducks 3, since that's what was on when [he] turned on the TV."

I calmly nodded and then asked him if he could send me his writing when it was done. And then he did. And then I died:

Charlie and Fulton quit the team because they are whiny assholes. "I mean, I don't know if I want to play hockey my whole life." "Fine, I don't care." "I don't need you. Just GO." Hans passes away. It was so sudden. Gordon Bombay can save the day. Beautiful music plays at funeral scene as Hans is laid to rest. Bombay places the old Ducks jersey on Hans's coffin. He whispers a sexy comment into Charlie's mom's ear and disappears into the wind. Charlie wakes up with Bombay on the end of his bed. Charlie doesn't understand. Neither do I. But the all-knowing Bombay has a few tricks up his skate. Orion has a crippled daughter and now Charlie understands the true meaning behind life, and also, high school hockey. Yes, it all becomes crystal clear in a moment's time. Bombay shows Charlie an old picture depicting himself as a hotshot player back in he 1970's. Charlie knows what he must do: He must grow his hair long and have sideburns and he, too, will become a legend. Bombay tells Charlie that he is the true Minnesota Miracle man. And now I'm done and hitting send.

Perhaps this is only funny if you, like me, have seen the damn movie more times than you'd care to admit, but I very nearly wet myself.

And while we're speaking about my family, my brother texted me earlier today, saying "I am behind a truck that is clearly transporting racing pigeons." My reply was "WTF?" because, well, what the hell is a racing pigeon? His response:



I was all prepared to ask if any of you knew anything about the concept of racing pigeons, but my brother came through with his own research, informing me that it may involve something about specially-bred pigeons with homing instincts, racing speed, and a prize of a stale bagel for the fastest pigeon. I have no idea if any of this is true, but it sounds too bizarre to be fake. Additionally, it holds the dubious honor of being the most useless bit of trivia I've picked up in quite some time, and is TOTALLY something the aforementioned Weird Guy would have been involved in. In fact, that's probably his Racing Pigeon Transport truck.

Finally, I have two posts up elsewhere. The first is my final Potty Ambassador post (wherein I recount the joys of airplane travel with a newly-trained toddler), and the second is a little something I like to call "In Praise of the $27 Lip Gloss," which is not as bad as it sounds, and is actually one of my favorite things I've written for BeautyHacks to date.

Ways In Which I Am a Curmudgeon: Children's Books That Are Creeping Me Right The Hell Out

Yesterday was T's third birthday party. And while it was in fact his 3rd birthday party, it was also his THIRD BIRTHDAY PARTY. He had one at school...



A mini one at home on his actual birthday...



And then a blow-out party yesterday for all of his friends. (Which included a Costco cake. BEST DECISION EVER.)



How many parties and sparkling crowns does one boy need?! My god, throw in a fragrance line and a penchant for white suits, and he would be Diddy. In truth, though, this was all just a covert excuse for me to ingest as many frosting-topped baked goods as possible, so...WIN.

Lo's birthday is on Saturday, so basically, it's an orgy of sprinkles around here lately. Not that I'm complaining at ALL, and FYI, "Orgy of Sprinkles" is going to be my band's next hit single. You heard it here first.

And speaking of the kids, I must say, I take issue with a few of the books I've been reading them lately. My problems with Love You Forever are well-documented in my guest post on Loralee's site. (In a nutshell: It's a sweet story of the eternal love between a mother and her baby, but I draw the line when said mother is a thousand million years old and is creeping into her adult son's bedroom VIA A LADDER to sing him a lullaby while he's sleeping, Creepy Edward Cullen-style.)

Also irksome is The Giving Tree. STOP THROWING THINGS AT ME, I AM A PERSON, DAMMIT. For whatever reason, I never read this one as a kid, and when T pulled it off the bookshelf one night, I was appalled by the story. It centers around a little boy who keeps making demands of this tree. "She" provides a strong branch so he can build a swing, shade, apples to sell, etc. The tree happily gives the boy everything he asks for, since she loves the boy. The boy's demands escalate as he grows older, until finally, the boy asks the tree if he can cut her down for wood, so he can make a boat.

(I know!)

The boy sails off, and returns years later as an old man, with his liver-spotted old man hand out, asking the tree for something else, and finally, the tree (which is now just a stump, since HE CUT HER DOWN) says "I have nothing left to give you." The boy asks for a quiet place to sit, and the tree provides that. The End.

(Right? RIGHT?)

I mean, I know some people like the story. And perhaps the book can be taken as some sort of psychological inkblot test, where you make your own interpretations. If so,then I find it DEPRESSING AS HELL, and eerily reminiscent of a dysfunctional relationship. Do with that what you will.

Last in the Creepy Book Lineup is We're Going On a Bear Hunt, with which the kids have recently fallen in deep, mad love. Now, we have the pop-up version, which I must say, is great, but the story, man. THE STORY. Perhaps it's just me Being A Mom, but every time I read it, I'm all enthusiastic and excited inflection-y, but inside, I'm all, "Who IS this asshole father who takes his tiny children--including an infant-- on a real bear hunt? Like, for actual bears? For real? Is that tall blond female his daughter or his wife? It's disturbing me that I can't tell. Why are they not wearing boots while tramping through the mud? Ditto the river? And A SNOWSTORM? Are you fucking kidding me? Why must they go through it? Can they not turn back? And OMFG, they are now face-to-face with an actual bear, what is wrong with this man?"

Sigh...this is totally a sign I should introduce more TV into their lives, right?

Oh, wait. Scratch that. WONDER PETS. DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED.

(I am, by the way, thankful that my kids love books. And they do have other favorites which don't bother me. Those just aren't as much fun to write about.)

Five things of little to no importance that are nonetheless perplexing me.

Well, let's just dive right in, shall we?

1. SCRUNCHIES

American Apparel, as you well know, is on my shit list already for this, and of course, the Pregnancy Unitard of Abject Fug (PUAF). Although if the PUAF had been around when I was pregnant last year, I totally, TOTALLY would have tried it on in the store and taken a picture for you. I’m giving like that, but I digress. The thing is, it’s the AUDACITY with which they push this shit on us, like, “oh, yeah, EVERYONE is wearing Wool Floppy Hats this summer, bitches! And you’d best be getting your Floppy Hat Cleaner to go along with it!

And now, my friends, they’re pushing the scrunchie on us. I’m sorry, but it’s TOO MUCH, and I say this as someone who used to make her own scrunchies and sell them for $1 door-to-door while also offering to puffy paint Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on t-shirts for people for $5 and no, I am not kidding.

I strongly feel that unless you are starring in a shot-for-shot remake of:

(a) that Sex and the City episode with the scrunchie;
(b) Heathers; or
(c) any number of Cyndi Lauper videos…

…There is no excuse for anyone, anywhere, to be considering this purchase. In fact…yes. You know what? If you tell me you are considering buying one of their scrunchies, that you simply MUST have the scrunchie, I will dust off the ol’ sewing machine and MAKE YOU ONE INSTEAD. I can’t let American Apparel win this one!

2. THESE SHOES

My real-life friend Kitjule (and it has nothing to do with this, but I must show you…SHE MADE THIS!) sent me a link to these yesterday, knowing I would essentially vomit in terror when I saw them.



And lo, she was right.

And really, I think anything I write here would be superfluous. I’ll just let the shoes speak for themselves.

3. ZAKY HANDS

Apparently, these are supposed to calm and soothe babies. Or something. I don’t know, I was too busy involuntarily emitting ear-shattering primal screams at the sight of them.

Look, I’m sure they have magical properties and whatever, but all I can see is the hands of the Swedish Chef Muppet--amputated in a tragic kitchen-related Flormenschnugen accident, no doubt--cupping an innocent baby. HOW CAN YOU SLEEP LIKE THAT, SWEET TINY BABY? HOW?

4. HAREM PANTS

A few of my fellow fashion enablers and I have been discussing the horror that is the resurgence of harem pants. As with the scrunchie, there is a very specific set of circumstances whereby the purchase and wearing of said item is acceptable, and in this instance, it involves a live stage performance of Disney’s Aladdin and/or the need to complete an MC Hammer costume. To whom is this flattering? No. Just. No.

5. MY PORES

What the hell is UP, pores? I moisturize, exfoliate, mask, invoke occult prayer, and still, you persist in your blatancy. WHY?

Sure, I know that taken on their own, each of these things is inconsequential, but put them all together? IT'S CHILLING.



Many thanks to my little bro for bringing this haunting artistic vision to life. (All hail people who know Photoshop better than I do!) (That is to say, everyone!)

So, what's bewildering you lately?

And...we're BACK.

Our brief trip to Chicago was jam-packed with action, so I figured, hey, what better way to recount it than in the form of a fake Q&A session with an imaginary reader named Balki from Chicago?

So, how were your flights?

Surprisingly not bad! Thanks to your amazing advice , I was able to pack a well-organized --but not overstuffed-- carry-on bag which kept the kids entertained for nearly the duration of the flight. On both the outbound trip and the return trip, they charmed the flight crew (up to and including the pilot, who played Lo for a good five minutes after we landed in Chicago and we were waiting to de-plane). That is never a bad thing. Something else I learned is that my crippling fear of flying is mitigated by the need to care for and quiet two little people during said flight. It's exceedingly distracting, in the best way possible, such that when the pilot announces that he's making the final descent, you're all, "Already? OH THANK GOD. I didn’t even have time to play Imagine What Could Go Wrong!"

What did you do during your first day there?

We arrived Wednesday afternoon, and that night was my cousin's bachelorette party. (As most of you know, we were in Chicago for her wedding.) The evening involved shot glasses made of ice, margaritas, tequila, karaoke, interpretive chair dancing, a chair dancing injury (not mine!) and, as I vaguely recall, a Teletubby costume. It was, as you can imagine, fantastic. I love my cousins. And my (now married!) cousin's friends.

Was your second day just as fun? Did you scare any gay couples?

Not so much. And yes.

Thursday I was on my own with the kids in the city, and things were going along swimmingly, until T threw THE MOTHER OF ALL SHIT FITS after I committed the grievous error of throwing out his bowl of ice cream before he was finished.

Ordinarily, he'd probably have just asked me for more ice cream, but he was overtired, cranky, in an unfamiliar town, and thus generally insufferable. He therefore began shrieking. The super-awesome high-pitched kind with the purple face and rigid body. This is NEW TO ME, people. I'm not saying he's always an angel; he’s pitched a hissy fit here and there in the past, but this is only the second time he's pulled this level of tantrum...ing. I stood my ground and, since he made himself all but impossible to hold, I ended up DRAGGING HIM BODILY out the door of the ice cream shop (Bobtail, for those of you who may have seen the spectacle of a frazzled-looking woman grimly sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk with one hand on a baby's stroller and the other tightly wrapped around a raging, flailing, kicking toddler for a good ten minutes last Thursday). Oh, and also? We were in an exceedingly gay neighborhood, and these couples kept walking by, all happy and chatty and carefree, and then they’d spot (or rather, hear) the scene, and their faces would shift into expressions of ABJECT HORROR. Basically, I can pretty much assure you that any of them who had been considering adopting a child are now leaning towards a puppy. Or perhaps a houseplant. I COULD SEE THE FEAR IN THEIR EYES.

And that’s when the cop rolled up.

But don't worry! He was just patrolling the neighborhood, saw me sitting on the ground and decided to see if I needed any help. He was really friendly, and T became distracted by the police car. The tantrum ended as quickly as it had begun, but I live in fear of the next one, because that shit was crazy.

Would you like me to tell you the tantrums magically stop?

Yes! Do they?

No. Sorry.

You’re mean, imaginary reader named Balki.

I apologize. Um, how was the rest of your day?

Oh, the rest of the afternoon was great; the kids and I continued exploring the city, ducking into little shops and playgrounds and meeting new people. Chicago is such a friendly city, and I kept getting pleasantly surprised by just HOW kind everyone was. People came over to ask about my stroller, where I got T’s shirt, if I needed directions…it was hard at first, because I had to break myself of the habit of acting like a skittish baby deer about to bolt every time someone approached. Because the thing is, in New York, if someone’s coming over to you unbidden, it’s usually to: (A) ask you for money; (B) quietly steal your money; or (C) inform you that you are an unholy incarnation of the Antichrist and your iniquities shall be recalled on Judgment Day along with the rest of the sinners in a fiery pit in the bowels of the Fifth Circle of Hell.

(I quickly got used to the sweet Midwestern manners, though, and longed for them when I was back to reality this morning, witnessing what has to be the fourteenth Subway Seat War I’ve seen this calendar year. I’ll bet you that type of thing doesn’t happen in Chicago.)

Thursday NIGHT was even more fun, since I finally, FINALLY got to meet Kristabella!



I’ve been emailing with her and reading her blog for a long time now, so I knew I adored her, but it was so nice to actually sit down with her, and learn that she’s even more hilarious and fun in person, AND forgave me my tardy arrival to dinner. In fact, we got along so well, I made her take me to an all-night convenience store afterward because I’d forgotten to bring a razor to Chicago and my various planned skirt-centric outfits necessitated me acquiring one. I ask you, would you do that to someone you don’t instantly love? I think not.

That IS heartwarming. It makes me want to do the Dance of Joy. What else did you do while you were in town?

Well, J arrived late Thursday from his business trip in Vegas, and things became markedly easier, since I had an extra pair of hands. (I’d flown into town-- and stayed with—my mom for the first few days, but she was involved in a lot of the wedding weekend preparations.) We hung out at Navy Pier on Friday...





Piece on Saturday night...



...and of course, attended the wedding on Sunday.





How lovely! One last question—did you perchance spot a woman with a turtle-shaped knapsack, a snake tattoo on her back, and a haircut that is ALL BUT IDENTICAL to that of Kate Gosselin’s while you were in Chicago?

Yes. Yes, I did.

**********

While we're on the subject of Q&A's, I have a REAL one up in the newest post on my other blog, with brilliant potty-training advice from an actual expert and some my commentors!