A Sense of Accomplishment, and a Mini-List

It's November 30th; do you know what that signifies? Of course you do; why, it's the day that British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was presented with a controversial portrait by English artist Graham Sutherland which was destroyed on the instruction of Lady Churchill, of course! (I love you, History Channel! You're the smartest, prettiest channel of all!) In addition, however, November 30th is the last day of this, which I'm proud to say I completed. This is an unusual accomplishment for me; while I'm a huge fan of making lists, and crossing things off of said lists...(and in fact, if I leave something off of a list, I've been known to add it on, post-fact, for the sheer satisfaction of crossing it off)...I generally have a tendency to throw myself into projects, all gung-ho, and then lose interest. Just ask my poor defenseless bedroom chair, which has half of my folded laundry from last week still sitting on it. Or the skein of soft grey yarn that was going to be my son's "going home from the hospital" blanket (said son is now 6 months old). The point is, I'm sort of surprised that I followed through on the posting-every-day thing, but having now completed it, I can say that it was a lot of fun, and I'm going to try to keep it up :) . Thanks for all the great comments, and to my lurkers, I hope you've liked it, as well; did I tell you that I think you're all really super pretty? Yes, even prettier than the History Channel? I'm just saying. And now, three random things that made me happy beyond reason today: 1. Hearing the deployment of the term "scuttlebutt" in a serious conversation; (hee hee; scuttlebutt!) 2. Overhearing a middle-aged woman tell her companion, seemingly without irony, that since her husband retired, he's been "married to the sea." Not, like, "sailing a hell of a lot" or "loves his goddamn boat;" no, this guy? He's "married to the sea." 3. Discovering that my seemingly suicidal iPod was fixable (thanks, Internet!). Speaking of which, I don't know if anyone else pays attention to the music on Grey's Anatomy like I do, but in last week's episode, there was a song that I became obsessed with and promptly downloaded. The thing is, it's partly haunting and beautiful...and partly makes you sort of want to kill yourself, it is so melancholy and depressing. Take a listen; see what I mean? Lastly, I finally got a chance to sit down and read my "collectors' edition" (???) US Weekly, covering the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes wedding. Um, does anyone else think that her dress was sort of fugly? Especially the tinsel looking mesh fence thing around the top?

On Cupcakes, and Another Side of J. Crew

This evening, I was struck with the urge (read: J asked me) to make cupcakes. They're the Magnolia Bakery cupcakes, and I've been making them since way before they attained international fame from these fools (whom I love):

They are, quite simply, the best cupcakes ever. (I feel that I can say that since it's not my recipe, and therefore it's not technically bragging.) Here's a picture. I was feeling particularly Food Network today, hence the colored frostings (which contain 8 cups of confectioners sugar):

See? Pretty! And only four sticks of butter! Now, onto the main topic of this post... J. Crew. I generally love J. Crew's stuff, and their clothes are, in my opinion, the quintessence of all that is casual, refined and classy. But upon receipt of my winter catalog, I noticed something disturbing about the cover. Take a look:

Now, is it just me, or does this girl's outfit scream, "Oh dear sweet lord, I just slept with Jimmy the mailroom temp after getting drunk at the company holiday party, and I forgot my coat when we left because I was so drunk, and last night the snow falling was pretty but it wasn't as cute when I woke up this morning, hungover, and Jimmy was still sleeping, and I did NOT want to wake him and have An Awkward Chat, and I felt bad stealing a coat, but I had to take something to keep warm and somehow, taking a scarf and his socks didn't seem quite as bad, and ewww, I did my hair using the grimy mirror in his skank-ass bathroom and what the hell was I thinking wearing these shoes in December?"

Ahem.

Sorry, got carried away there. But...this isn't the new fashion, is it? I've tried to remain relatively calm about the leggings, the Shooties, and even the legwarmers, but I tell you now, I am incapable of sitting idly by and letting argyle socks with sandals become the new "thing." That cannot-- nay, it will not happen. On this, you have my word.

Viva La Revolution!

Now that my iPod has inexplicably died on me (boo), I've started paying attention to peoples' conversations during my commute. I was just on the train, and overheard this guy and his friend chatting. The guy, garbed in these faux-vintage hipster clothes (HATE!), starts recounting to his traveling partner how he totally "screwed" Safeway (I'm assuming this is a Target-esque store? Help me out here…) by stealing a Christmas tree from their lot 5 days before Christmas last year. His daring and complex plan apparently involved hoisting it over a fence after closing. He was literally bragging about this. Now, I ask you, is there anything more pathetic than a 30-something dude bragging to his friend about stealing a Christmas tree? Furthermore, he was exceedingly proud of himself and what he had done on a societal level; I distinctly heard the phrase "stickin' it to the man." Listen Costanza, "the man" isn't the one you're punishing here with your courageous and radical blows against the bourgeois; it's the minimum wage store employees that are ultimately penalized. "The man" is relaxing at home, or his country estate. You know how people are always saying "[blank] isn't what Christmas is about?" Now, I don't celebrate Christmas, but I'm fairly confident that I can still say with some modicum of authority that stealing a tree is most definitely not what Christmas is about. Especially when you can clearly afford your $180 jeans and $90 sweater that I know you ripped those holes in yourself, since my brother just got the same exact one, and it's from Banana Republic. (Banana Republic- Truly, the store for revolutionaries!) Jerkass. Now, a more pressing issue: Why, oh why is ABBA's Fernando running incessantly through my head, such that, despite the busted iPod, I still had to download it from iTunes?! It's been stuck there for days; I'm so very disturbed.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

I secretly think I could be a really good actress, if only I had the time, patience and drive. Oh, and the talent. Scenes for Law and Order are frequently filmed near my office (i.e., somewhere in Manhattan; I've really narrowed it down, no?), and if I happen upon one of the sets, I make sure to talk expressively on my cell phone, sometimes to no one, in the hopes of getting "discovered." Every so often, however, I get to practice in front of an actual audience. Like this morning. J and I were driving to the train station, and were running a tad late. Now, a bit of boring but pertinent background. Our train station is at the bottom of a narrow windy road which goes in a giant circle, at the bottom of which is the parking lot. Basically, picture a big donut (um, I'm hungry) that you access at the top, with a train station at its base. (Yes, that would be really trippy, but picture it anyway.) The traffic is terrible there in the morning, and its pretty dangerous, because people come down this narrow winding road from both directions to get to the parking lot faster. In light of this, a large and impossible-to-miss sign was posted a few weeks ago, at the top of the "donut" (I've picked the analogy, and I'm sticking with it) clearly specifying that the road is one-way during the morning and evening rush hours; that is to say, you can only go to the right. I'm actually fairly certain that this sign is visible from space. Anyway, as I was saying, this morning we were running late, and the following conversation occurred: J: Whoa; we're so late, and there's a huge backup on the access road. What do we do? Aren't you glad I speak in such an expository fashion, Metalia? Perhaps something blogworthy shall transpire here this morning! (Okay, maybe he didn't utter the last two sentences.) Metalia: We have no time; ignore the stupid sign and go left! J: Are you sure, hon? M: Who's gonna catch us? Like there's gonna be a cop there? (Note: I actually said this.) Universe: [barely able to contain its laughter] Of course there is, Metalia! Cop: Pull over! Us: Dammit. Cop: You can't go down this way any more. Us: Really?! J: Wow, we had no idea! Thank you. At this point, the cop is still sitting there in his car, just staring at us, so I decided to use my incredible acting skills, honed from an aggregate of approximately 12 minutes of walking past Law and Order being filmed. Just imagine me saying everything below in a comically exaggerated and melodramatic fashion with many italics: M: Oh my god! There's a sign?! Where? Cop: Top of the hill, miss. M: When did they put it up?! Cop: About a month ago, probably. M: Wow, I can't believe it! Just...wow. I looked at him, and he at me. (Is Lola only running through anyone else's head? No? Just me?) We regarded each other for a moment. I don't know if he thought me insane, or genuine/unnaturally concerned with road signage, but all I know is...we are ticket-free. Woo!

This is the Face of Evil

I was all set to address David Blaine's latest foray into douchebaggery, but as I sat down with my computer, I saw something on TV that was far more compelling, and infinitely more frightening; this guy:

I don't know why I haven't spoken before about my deep and paralyzing fear of the Burger King...uh, King. He is horrifying! A few years back, they kept showing these commercials with poor unsuspecting souls waking up in bed with his hideous grinning visage peering into their faces, bearing some sort of BK breakfast sandwich. They then share a laugh, and of course, the delicious sandwich.

Fortunately, the commercials petered out, and I was mercifully spared any further run-ins with the King...until now. He's back, and in some sort of dirt bike motion capture commercial. It doesn't make much sense; all I know is, he's back, and haunting my subconscious again. Why, Burger King, why?

In other news, we went this afternoon to see the Les Miserables revival, and it was really good; however, nothing can take you out of the drama and passion of the French Revolution like the following: Cast members fumbling the tossing of a large red flag which plays a prominent and visible role in the performance, such that it falls into the audience, necessitating a cast member to physically leave the stage to retrieve it.

This is where it should be, wayyy up here on the stage:

It ended up around.... here.

An Open Letter to My Favorite Store

I must discuss a very personal topic this evening; bathroom spray, or "home fragrance," according to the good people at Glade. More specifically, I must address my lack of comprehension as to why they make one called Apple Cinnamon. I know they say it can be used for every room in the house, and in the kitchen, for instance, this smell would make sense. But let's be honest; unless you're 16, and attempting to hide the smell of smoke from your parents, does anyone really use this stuff anywhere but the bathroom? And so, following that thought, I pen the following letter: Dear Store That Shall Remain Nameless, but rhymes with "Marget," Why on earth do you want your bathrooms to smell like Apple Cinnamon? Clean Linen, I get. Powder Fresh, sure. Even Suddenly Spring, whatever that means, sort of makes sense. But I simply fail to understand the point of Apple Cinnamon; do you want people to walk into your bathroom and go, "Mmmm! Who's making pie?!" And...not to be indelicate, but heaven forbid that the Apple Cinnamon spray fails to do its job. Then some poor unsuspecting soul (like me, for example) is left with a bathroom that smells partly like Apple Cinnamon, and partly like...well, what you were trying to cover up in the first place. And that's just not good news for anybody. (Well, mainly me. Because...ew.) Sincerely, Metalia

Fugly

I, along with the rest of America, went shopping earlier today. I know that leggings are back in style, and I cannot quite wrap my mind around that. However, just when I thought that leg-related fashions could not get any worse, I spied Pumptie. What is Pumptie, you ask? Pumptie is a monstrosity of a shoe. It's a shoe/bootie hybrid; it is, in fact, a shootie. Do I have to tell you that I saw a girl wearing very similar shooties along with leggings today? Of course I did. The combination of these shoes, which covered her ankles, and the leggings, which cut her legs right below the calf, made for a major tree trunk leg situation. Delightful! I was busy shaking my head in wonder at this when I spied a teenager wearing leg warmers over flip flops, and then my mind officially exploded.

Oh, Sylvester!

It's the Type A part of me, who comes out on rare occasions (national holidays, apparently) that is compelling me to post twice in one day. I sort of felt that my last post didn't really "count," as it consisted largely of a picture, and two sentences. Anyway... My husband and I were recently at a dinner, and while there, he and one of his friends randomly started discussing some movie called Over the Top from the mid-80's. Perhaps this movie is familiar to you, but I had never heard of it, so I asked them what it was about. They told me, and I thought they were pulling my proverbial leg. Allow me to quote the estimable IMDB (emphasis mine):

Lincoln Hawk (Sylvester Stallone) is a struggling trucker who's trying to rebuild his life. After the death of his ex-wife, he tries to make amends with his son who he left behind years earlier. Upon their first meeting, his son doesn't think too highly of him...until he enters the nation-wide arm wrestling competition in Las Vegas.

Are you...kidding me? This was greenlit?! I know it was the 80's, but still. I am sort of horrified, but fascinated at the same time...I must see this movie. After conducting some additional research, I discovered that the soundtrack features Frank Stallone (Sly's bro), singing a song called "Bad Nite," which I can only assume is awesome. And by awesome, I mean "ungodly." All in all, it sounds like a glorious train wreck. Am I the only one who hadn't heard of this movie before?!

Three Years...

Happy anniversary, J!

Happy Thanksgiving to all! If I can muster up the energy (you know, after having just eaten a metric ton of food), perhaps I'll post more later :)

This Can't Be an Accident...

Today, while reading the newspaper, I noted that the annual "These toys will kill your child dead" list had been published, just in time for the holidays. Thoughtful. As I am a new mother, I started to peruse the list, helpfully provided in the paper, but I was distracted. You see, a toy called the Orbit Ball, by a company named Ja-Ru, had made the list, and of all the deadly killer toys on the list, the paper chose to display a picture of Orbit Ball. Now, Orbit Ball, for those of you who have not seen it, resembles...balls. And the paper chose to display the Orbit Ball in the most um..teste-riffic way. (Don't tell me it was an accident, Daily News!) It just looked so inappropriate. Because I am five years old, I found this extremely funny. I also of course thought, "perfect! I have found my blog post for tonight!" Unfortunately, the internet is not a fan of Orbit Ball, so I couldn't share it with you all. Not a picture to be found! I searched high, I searched low, but to no avail. I found another identically named product, but believe me, it is not the inappropriate toy that I saw earlier today. Undeterred, I kept searching. And then I found it. Not Orbit Ball, but perhaps something even better. Even more wildly inappropriate. It's a toy made by the same company, so I have to assume they're a big ol' bunch of perverts. It's just too much of a coincidence. Take a look and see for yourself; notice anything...interesting about Air Foam Fling Shot?

100 Things...

Here I go...

100 Things About Me

1. If I could eat only one food the rest of my life, it would be avocados.

2. I’ve tried, but I can’t wear sunglasses. Sunglasses make me look like a small, somewhat curious fly.

3. I've never met anyone else with my birthday. September 26th is apparently a special day only for Olivia Newton John, George Gershwin, and me.

4. I have been told by teachers that I have a smart mouth, and that I have “moxie.”

5. I'd estimate that only 25% of the people I meet pronounce my name correctly the first time. It's okay; I still like you.

6. I don't love my nose, but I’d never change it.

7. There is nothing more rewarding/entertaining to me than watching a really good end zone dance. (Joe Horn, I salute you!)

8. I like "unpopular" foods, including root beer and black jelly beans. But they can't just be making them for me...can they?!

9. The best moment of my life, so far, was the first time I peeked into my son's crib in the morning and got a huge smile of recognition. And then he cracked up, and my heart almost exploded from the cuteness.

10. I must hit the snooze button at least a few times before actually waking up.

11. My favorite color is grass green. It used to be a tie between pink and purple.

12. It was not until college that I realized that the phrase was not "for all intensive purposes", but rather, "for all intents and purposes." I'm not proud.

13. I am a really good speller. I made it to the National Spelling Bee.

14. Unsurprisingly, this talent has not opened any doors for me.

15. I truly cherish my friends.

16. I can deal with any bugs except for spiders.

17. I love a good nap.

18. My husband is the most well-adjusted, intelligent, patient person I've ever met.

19. My hair is stick straight. Sometimes, I wish it was wavy.

20. I love getting email. It’s like a tiny little present!

21. I've never seen Star Wars. Yes, really.

22. I look like I'm about 16. I wish I looked older.

23. I am an unrepentant nail biter. I wish I wasn’t, but there are worse habits to have.

24. Speaking of which, I’ve never smoked an entire cigarette.

25. I used to have a belly button ring. I took it out when I was pregnant. The hole is closed now. :(

26. I’ve been to a Snoop Dogg concert.

27. I like coffee only when it has been “denatured” from its original assy-tasting state to the point that it tastes exactly like Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream.

28. I hate driving. I’ll do it, but I hate it.

29. I wear and love three very different perfumes: Angel, Brit, and Light Blue. It depends on my mood.

30. When I was in high school, I used to wear this disgusting air freshener-smelling “body spray” called Tribe. I found it in the back of my old closet at my parents’ house and nearly died from the “intoxicating” aroma.

31. Holy shit, it still exists. Klassy!

32. It takes a lot to really piss me off, but once there, I can hold a grudge with the best of them.

33. I think The Time Traveler’s Wife is the best book I’ve read in years.

34. My drink of choice used to be an amaretto sour. Then there was…an incident (i.e., my friend's birthday many years ago…) and I can’t have most sweet drinks anymore without gagging.

35. My drink of choice is now a dirty martini with many olives. Yum!

36. If I have to do a shot, I’m a tequila girl.

37. Despite all appearances from items 33-35, I very rarely drink.

38. I’d say my best feature is my eyes.

39. I’m either in flats, or shoes with heels upwards of 3 inches. There’s no in between for me.

40. I think I could be a really good vegetarian, except for the fact that I love beef.

41. What I’m saying is, I love soy products, and chicken really doesn’t do anything for me. I could totally live without it.

42. I have a tendency to throw myself into projects and then trail off.

43. I’m only up to 43?! Geez…(See what I mean?)

44. I miss being pregnant sometimes.

45. I really really wish I was an amazing dancer.

46. I’m really really not.

47. I could walk into Anthropologie blindfolded, grab a bunch of stuff and buy it, and be utterly thrilled with everything I’d gotten. I love it so!

48. When I was younger, I took gymnastics because I was good at it, and piano because it was practical. When my parents told me to pick one or the other, I stuck with gymnastics.

49. I regret this decision each and every time I hear someone play the piano.

50. I really like my job.

51. My mother and grandmother are extremely talented artists; I wish I had even a bit of their skill.

52. I love cooking and baking.

53. I consequently have too many cookbooks. Though I probably have the perfect recipe for whatever it is you’re pondering making.

54. In my opinion, Diorshow mascara is the absolute best mascara there is. (Thanks, Ravit!) Don’t talk to me about Great Lash; it makes my lashes look like Tammy Faye Baker.

55. I can always stay in tune, but I don’t have a good voice.

56. I think the most intelligent and entertaining show on TV was Arrested Development (R.I.P.). That said, Scrubs, Grey's Anatomy (Meredith! Stop squinting, already! Open your eyes! OPEN YOUR EYES!), Weeds and The Office keep me entertained.

57. Despite its flaws (and there are many), I still love to watch SNL.

58. To wit, I hold a special place in my heart for Lunch Lady Land, Celebrity Jeopardy, the Barry Gibb Talk Show, and of course, More Cowbell.

59. I've never watched a soap opera in its entirety. Once, I watched Passions for 25 minutes, because my friend told me that there was a monkey nurse who had wedding fantasies about one of the characters, and I flat out did not believe her. After seeing the monkey in a wedding dress, I was horrified, and stood corrected. Sadly, I was fascinated as well. This is why I do not watch soap operas. I'm obsessed with what I saw until this day.

60. I do not see what the big deal is about The Doors (the band and the movie). You have an organ in your band. Good for you. Hee hee…organ.

61. When I was 13, I had mild scoliosis. I went to the orthopedist, who told me it'd correct itself eventually. He then helpfully added "Whoa! You have some 'birthing hips’ there! Hope you grow into those!" I was traumatized.

62. I'm a size 2. Suck it, mean orthopedist.

63. I always take a shower at night, but I'm too lazy to blow dry my hair. This makes for a terrible combination, as I never know how insanely dented my hair is going to look when I get up in the morning.

64. My favorite pictures from my wedding were not the professional ones, but rather, ones taken by my mom's friend.

65. I still like to watch Friends. C’mon, you know you do, too.

66. Every now and then, I'm so harried in the morning I forget to put on deodorant. (It's okay; I have in my desk at work in case I forget.)

67. Despite the previous item, I can say with great certainty that I still smell better than most of the people on the subway.

68. I get so frustrated with the subway, because people are incredibly rude there, and I cannot abide baseless rudeness. If you’ve got a reason, though, that’s cool.

69. I'm really non-confrontational. This is also why I hate the subway. I get pushed around a lot and never say anything.

70. I used to have a wart on my toe, and nothing made it disappear, including surgery, pills, and other fun stuff. After two years of treatment, the doctor eventually told me he was giving up on me and my ol’ warty toe; that he’d never seen a “hardier, more stubborn wart.”

71. Guess what finally made it go away? Pregnancy. I swear.

72. I grew up in a house with a fireplace, and I must have one in the house we buy one day.

73. I am perpetually in the mood for macaroni and cheese. It's my favorite thing in the world to eat.

74. I am, however, the world's least picky eater. I will literally try (and probably like) any food.

75. My vision is 20/15. When I was about 7, I really wanted glasses, and tried to fake my way through an eye exam. Fortunately, the eye doctor "saw" through what I did. (See what I did there? I'll be here all week! Tip your waitresses!)

76. The Princess Bride is probably my favorite movie. (So original!)

77. Sometimes, I get hyper-analytical.

78. My mother is the most generous and kind person I've ever known. I genuinely feel lucky to be her daughter.

79. I spent my first year of college studying abroad. It was one of the best years of my life (so far), and I met people then who remain close friends to this day.

80. I hate cleaning out the refrigerator. It's the worst chore ever.

81. My go-to karaoke song is Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield. I don't know why, but it works for me.

82. I think dogs are great, but seem to be way too much work. This is probably ironic, considering that we have a 1-year-old.

83. If we would get a dog someday, it'd have to be a big golden retriever or something. If it can fit in my bag, it's not a dog to me.

84. It is my dream to one day do a cross-country road trip. Even though I'm going to assume it's a lot less glamorous than TV, movies, and books have led me to believe.

85. I love a good salt bagel more than is probably normal.

86. Ditto lip gloss.

87. Sometimes, I look at my husband and son, and I’m blown away by just how much I love them.

88. I must go to sleep in a cold room.

89. I love reading other peoples’ “100 things” lists.

90. Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah (as well as Rufus Wainwright’s cover) will occasionally bring me to tears.

91. If the situation calls for it, I will swear like a longshoreman. I’m doing my best not to do so in front of my son.

92. I love the smell of rain.

93. Sometimes, I have the sense of humor of a 13 year-old boy. I'm okay with that.

94. I have no internal “food clock;” that is to say, I have no problem eating pizza for breakfast, or cheese fries at 2 am.

95. I have a deep and abiding fear of dolls coming alive which is rooted in seeing Child’s Play (i.e., possessed Chucky doll) at a young age.

96. I saw a show on VH1 where they showed clips from it, and I cracked up that I was ever scared of this movie.

97. Am I still secretly scared of certain dolls? Just a little bit? Yes.

98. I would love to have my own advice column.

99. Although she’s only 6 years younger than me, I sometimes want to adopt Lindsay Lohan. I think she really needs some discipline, and some tough love. Then, I could also borrow her clothes. This is what’s known as a master plan.

100. I think that, if called upon, I would make an excellent ninja.

Five Things...

I was all set to continue yesterday's post and discuss the hilarious book I found on our bookshelf, and then, while perusing the always entertaining Amanda's blog, I was inspired to do one of those "100 things about me" lists. However, I saw that the equally fun Cheesefairy had "tagged" me for the following "meme" (you bloggers, and your crazy lingo...and don't get me started on your loud music...), which is only FIVE items. That seemed considerably easier than 100 for right now. Anyway, the list here, per Cheesefairy, is "Five things that you might not know about me." I'm going to cheat just a little bit and take the first one from my bio. (Whatever, whatever, I do what I want!) 1) My husband and I are both lefties. Weird, no? Weirder still, we think our son is a righty. 2) I do not mind the smell of skunk. In fact I sort of enjoy it. Some people find this strange, some concur, but they always find it weird when I tell them that the sound of nails on a chalkboard doesn't bother me. I mean, I wouldn't make an extended disco remix of the noise, but it really doesn't affect me one way or another. 3) I know each and every word of the movie Annie by heart. It's true. I haven't watched it in years, but if called upon to do so, I could perform a one woman show, complete with choreographed dance sequences. 4) I am very gullible sometimes. My prime example of this is that when I was about 4, my father showed me a picture of him in an astronaut suit, and when I asked him, he said that yes, he had, in fact, gone into outer space. (In retrospect, it was clearly one of those "head cut out" picture backdrops; I think this one was at the Air and Space Museum or something.) While I never bragged about it or anything, I sincerely did not realize that my father hadn't actually gone into outer space until probably about 10 years later, when the picture resurfaced. What's that, you say? You have a bridge to sell me? Cool! 5) I was in the National Spelling Bee. This was way back before it was in vogue like it is now. Not too much explanation here; this will most definitely be the subject of a future post. Pictures commemorating my tragic appearance during this time will of course be included. How about you?

Chow Time?! Really?

Earlier today, I was reorganizing one of our bookshelves (exciting!), and came across the most entertaining book ever. It is a mystery as to how it appeared in our home, but I'm sure the title alone will give you a glimpse as to why it is so funny: Am I Weird or Is This Normal? Advice and Info to get Teens in 'The Know' The book is hysterical. I think it necessitates multiple posts to adequately convey the hilarity, so for today, I'll leave you with these interesting tidbits. First of all, the title of this post is, according to the book, slang for a certain act.* This is news to me, and probably to you, as well. The most important information, though, comes from the chapter on meeting people ("Getting it On," according to the book). Here's what I've learned, and I'm passing this valuable knowledge on to you. Apparently, guys rate the following three lines to be the best icebreakers: 1) "Hi" 2) "That's a cool shirt!" 3) "Want to dance?" I'd pay good money to see some poor impressionable teens attempting to put # 3 in action at, say, the bus stop. Or a place of worship.

The book then helpfully tells you to expand the conversation, and give this scintillating example:

"I'm learning to snowboard. It's really different from skiing. " Stay tuned tomorrow, when I walk you through the book's "10 Sexy Alternatives to Sex!" I'll give you a hint; one of the sexy alternatives involves "crooning your song!" Sexxxxay! *For which, by the way, the book gives really uncomfortably detailed instructions.

Match Game

Do you know how you'll occasionally see identical twins dressed alike? When I see this, I always have the same reaction. I intially think "oh, how cute," but then I think how, if they were my kids, I'd do my very best to dress them differently, so as to ensure that they were not defined by their "twin-ness." After all, wouldn't dressing them the same impact them, if their memories and images of childhood were marked primarily by precisely how much they match their sibling? I never had opportunity to ask any actual twins this question (Oshi? Any thoughts?), but I'm here to tell you that the answer is a resounding yes. You will, in fact, scar your kids for life if you do this to them. How do I know this, you ask? Guys, there are identical old lady twins in my town. And they dress alike. When I say "dress alike," I don't mean in similar old lady-esque floral prints. I mean head to toe--including sunglasses, shoes, and handbags-- they are decked out in 100% matching outfits. And before you ask, I've seen them on more than one occasion, so there goes the theory that they were on their way to…Twinstock, or something that first time. People, they have the same watches and hairclips! And yes, I totally spy on them whenever I see them. (How else do you think I've obtained this level of detail?) Don't get me wrong; they are adorable; who doesn't love two little old ladies dressed the same? I want them as bookends! And their perpetually matching clothes are so chic; I'd honestly wear most of the stuff they have on. But the fact remains-they are, like, 85, and are dressed identically. What's that, you say? You want photographic evidence? Here you go: See? What did I tell you? Even the pocketbooks match!

Adorable, no?

How cute are they?

Please know that I have refrained from writing about this until I had pictures to prove it. And today, I got lucky. I spotted them this morning from the car and shrieked to J that I had spotted the elusive old lady twins once again. He circled the block just so I could clandestinely get a good picture of them. I knew he loved me before, but now I am certain that he really really does; for I am clearly insane.

Together at Last!

I get my iced coffee every morning from the same little store by my office. As this store also serves breakfast, there is oftentimes a line to order. This morning, I was behind a man who ordered what is, hands down, the most revolting thing in the world. How bad could it be, you ask? Let me break it down for you:

~Onion bagel (fine.)

~Cream cheese (okay.)

~Sausage (with cream cheese?! Getting worse...) and...

~GRAPE JAM!!!!!!

Think about it now. All those tastes, together. The jam, the sausage...My mind, it is boggled. As nasty as that is, my primary question upon seeing this was not, "How in the hell are you going to eat this?" but rather, "In the name of all that is holy, how did you come to put these things together in the first place?!"

Mom Was Right...

So this is why your mother always told you to wear clean underwear. Not in case you got into an accident, but rather, because you just never know when an aging and increasingly erratic ex-supermodel is going to force you to strip down on camera for a nationally syndicated talk show. Oh, Tyra. You’re delightfully insane. I love you so! (Watch the video!)

They're Always Coming Up With New Holidays...

My good friend Stee teaches in small all-girls private school. She is very smart and pretty, and her students love her. She is also a big ol' birthday ho. She consequently "happened" to mention her upcoming 26th birthday to one of her classes at school, and the students apparently remembered. On her birthday, she entered the classroom, and was happily "surprised" by her girls, bearing a cake box. She thanked the class, and told them to save it for later. The girls, exchanged uncomfortable looks and said perhaps they should eat it now. They then explained that they had given the cake order to a bakery employee for whom English was clearly not a strong suit. The girls had requested that "Happy Birthday! The Big Two-Six!" be written on the cake. Here's what happened instead:

<----Freak-ass scary frosting clown

<---Awesomely dirty yet nonsensical birthday cake message

I don't know; I think "the big 2 sex" deserves a cake, don't you?

Aaron Sorkin: Writer, Director, Pain in My Ass

Homer Simpson: The evening began at the gentleman's club, where we were discussing Wittgenstein over a game of backgammon. Scully: Mr. Simpson, it's a felony to lie to the F.B.I. Homer: We were sitting in Barney's car eating packets of mustard. There, you happy? Do you know how, when you're in school, there's always That Kid? You know the one I mean; he's a-know-it-all, and wayyyy too eager to show you that he knows everything there ever was to know. And then this kid grows up, and is still like that, only now instead of bragging that he memorized pi to the 5,873rd decimal point, he says things like "Coffee? I'd love some. By the way, that reminds me of this early Latin text I was perusing just last night for some light reading. In the original Latin." Or "You know, that drive-thru window brings to mind my thesis on Postmodern Isolationism…" or some crap like that. Do you know the type of person I'm talking about? Okay. Well, that is what watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is like for me. As I watch the show, I’m continually thinking that Aaron Sorkin is That Kid, all grown up. I’ve been trying to figure out just what, exactly, is preventing me from truly loving the show, and I think I’ve pinpointed it. I never watched The West Wing, but I understand from fans of the latter that the two shows are very similar; Aaron Sorkin has a specific writing style, and he's consistent. Which is fine, but while the heavy, plodding, hyper-intellectual atmosphere might be appropriate for a show set in the White House, to me, it is just completely out of place in what is supposed to be the manic, frenetic world of sketch comedy. The characters are consistently up in arms over a sketch comedy show in a manner that is suspiciously similar to how I imagine a fictional White House staff would react to things, if you know what I mean, and I think that you do. The thing that kills me is that I really want to like the show, and in many ways I do. It’s just that certain aspects of Mr. Sorkin's writing are just so…annoying. The first episode had everyone referencing the director of the movie Network, Paddy Chayefsky, over and over again. Okay, we get it, Aaron, you want us to know that you know who he is. Here's a small shiny gold star. Now, the show is like, all of 6 episodes old, and already we had a Very Special Episode about blacklisting, featuring a wizened and kindly old man who teaches everyone a Super Important Lesson. Yuck! It was so sanctimonious. Perhaps Mr. Sorkin could’ve waited until the show was at least reasonably established before getting so preachy. Another episode had one of the members of the (fictional) Studio 60 cast telling the head writer of the show that his current girl situation (a straightforward “not wanting to admit feelings” thing) was akin to…some weird obscure play. So obscure, in fact, that I cannot even remember anything about the title so I can try to find the name. (And I majored in literature in college, so I know a thing or two about weird old plays that nobody knows about.) Do you know what someone in real life would say that situation is like? Ross and Rachel; Carrie and Mr. Big; Any teenybopper movie ever made. Not [insert name of weird old play here]. There's simply no need to dredge up some random play that no one’s ever heard of to compare to that most basic of boy/girl situations, unless your objective is to tell everyone just how smart you are, in which case, mission (sort of) accomplished. But what that does is take everyone (well, at least me) out of the show, which is, at its core, quite good, to take a few moments to roll their eyes at Aaron Sorkin. It's not that I don't like the show; I do, to an extent. It's just that I can never completely enjoy having to watch a show that requires Encyclopedia Brittanica to fully comprehend the writer's "genius” when you just know he had to look up all his lofty references there himself, while eating mustard packets in his car.

On Ham and...Uh, Sausage?

Every summer, we go with my parents and brothers up to the Poconos to a beautiful lake house. (Fortunately for us all, Keanu Reeves does not inhabit this one.) We generally have the best time, just relaxing, swimming, golfing (some of us, anyway),...and hanging out at Super Walmart. Before we started going up to the house, my brothers, my husband and I had never seen the inside of a Walmart, let alone a Super Walmart, such as the one here; we didn't have one locally. In any case, there is no end to the countless hours of entertainment to be found in the Super Walmart. I'm fully aware that they're killing the heart and soul of America, but really, how can you be upset at a store that carries the following fine merchandise? (The following pictures were taken clandestinely with my cell phone at the store this summer, in direct contravention of their "no pictures" policy. I live on the edge, I know.) Disturbing Item # 1 The most disturbing part of this lovely box o' "Red Eye Gravy and Country Ham" flavored grits is that I had actually thought it was Maple and Brown Sugar flavored oatmeal (same color, am I right?) and had placed it in our cart without noticing at first. *shudder* I can't make out the small words underneath, but I'm almost certain that they're bragging about the inclusion of real ham pieces in the grits. Yummy! Disturbing Item #2 Nice, right? Classy, no? I just love how Walmart, the store that purports to be all wholesome, and bans: a) "Inappropriate" Magazines b) Music it deems offensive for any reason (including this), and c) A potato chip delivery man who looked too much like Osama Bin Laden, ...somehow allows this in its stores. Maxim is out, Sheryl Crow accurately singing about the fact that Walmart carries guns gets her CD banned from the store, but this...this is okay?! Oh, Walmart. You are an enigma to me.

Hmmm...

Is it just me, or is anyone else sort of going to miss Kevin Federline in the news? I mean, the most we're going to see of him after the divorce is as a castmember on the Surreal Life. But...think about it. He's sort of entertaining, in the sense that you actively want to punch him in the face, and without his haunting and poetic song Popozao, how would we have gotten this? I'm kind of fascinated by him, if only in the "whatever shall this jerk ass do next?" sense, much in the way I feel about crazy ol' Tom Cruise, and Mel Gibson. I'm not saying it's rational, or anything. Update: See?! It's stuff like this, his rider of "requirements" for his dressing room! I am intrigued that he has the audacity to make requests for anything beyond, like, directions to the restroom at this point.

Well, That's Disturbing.

Today at work, I went to the kitchen to grab the half a sandwich I'd left there yesterday. I noticed somebody had moved a lot of stuff around in the fridge, so it was pushed all the way to the back. While back there, I noticed a jar of olives. I love olives, so I took it out to see whose intials were on it so I could ask to take some. And there were initials on it. Mine. Upon further inspection, I realized that this was a very distinctive jar of olives that I had received as part of a holiday gift basket. Last year. There is a sign on the fridge claiming that the cleaning staff tosses everything in the fridge each Friday, so I had put the olives there when I got them (last December) after opening, and totally forgot about them.

They were so disgusting looking I can't even tell you. I think they had evolved into a higher life form.

Yuck!

Occam's Razor (or, How I Will Attempt to Connect: A Medieval Philosophy, Celebrity Jeopardy, and Nicole Ritchie)

" All things being equal, the simplest solution tends to be the best one." ~Occam's Razor Those of you who know me know that I am a major fan of Saturday Night Live's Celebrity Jeopardy sketches. One of my favorite exchanges therein goes as follows: Alex Trebek: How about "Show and Tell" for $600? I'll just show you an object, and you'll tell me what it is, okay? Sean Connery: It's a man with a mustache! Alex Trebek: No, Mr. Connery, I am not the object. I haven't shown it to you yet. Here it is. [Holds up a hammer] Name this object! [Minnie Driver buzzes in] Minnie Driver: It's a popsicle! Alex Trebek: No! [Jeff Goldblum buzzes in] Jeff Goldblum, name this object. Jeff Goldblum: Yes. Uh, thank you. That's a...uh…a whadyacallit, when you…umm…when you... when you punished criminals in…uh...days of yore. It was a... And you'd put them in the…uh...the square in those…you know…uh… Alex Trebek: You mean in the stocks, or a pillory? Jeff Goldblum: Yes, exactly! [Timer sounds] Alex Trebek: It's a friggin' hammer! Where am I going with this, exactly? Something about the absurdity of that scene resonated with me, and very comically parallels something I've observed. Lately, there is an ongoing media obsession with, among other disturbing things, Nicole Ritchie's weight. (No, wait! Don't leave! I promise I'll tie it all together!) Now, this isn't about her, per se. Rather, what I find so funny is the frantic and desperate scramble by the media to blame her skeletal frame on anything but an (alleged) eating disorder. I know, I know, she said she doesn't have one, she's naturally thin, she devoured an entire buffalo herd just last night, etc. But let's review, shall we? Before and After... The girl was previously healthy sized (and in no way fat); and she is now emaciated. Sad, sure; but not really news. Yet, the media covers it incessantly. What I have a hard time understanding is if they choose to do that, why they then tiptoe around the very issue they're covering. Why does it have to be, in the words of OK, US, and every other crappy magazine I (ashamedly) read, a "mystery disease," blood disorder, or cancer (and yes, some of them are actually saying that)? Why are they claiming that specialists are needed to discover the inscrutable reason for her weight loss? When my car runs low on gas, it's because I didn't fill it up. I don't go around blaming the situation on a mischievous fuel-loving leprechaun named Butterscotch O'Flannigan (though he is sneaky...). Sometimes, the facts just speak for themselves, for good or for bad. And so, when the press is looking at what is, for all intents and purposes, a friggin' hammer, it would be cool if they would identify it as such, and not, in the immortal words of fake Minnie Driver, a popsicle.

Proof That Ikea is Really Just Messing With Us

If you are anything like me, you probably have a love/hate relationship with Ikea. I, for instance, love the fact that their crap is so cheap, but I hate the fact that within days of purchase (okay, sometimes longer...let's say weeks), I inevitably become increasingly suspicious that the cheap crap that I bought is, in fact, made out of actual crap. I adore their home goods section, and I marvel as to how they can sell, like, 73 swedish meatballs for 99 cents. But the one thing I absolutely cannot abide is their product names. I know I know, they're trying to be all quirky and whatnot, but sometimes...well, I'll just let...this speak for itself. (I must give credit to the always hysterical Potes at Television Without Pity for coming across it.) Really, Ikea? This particular conglomeration of letters you chose here just "happened" to spell what it does? Well played, Ikea; for I must admit, I covet this lamp. Not because of its striking good looks (because it is actually wretchedly ugly), but so that when people come over, I can point out to them the glorious majesty that is...the one and only "Farty G" lamp.

Fun with Borat, and Other Foreign Men

Sometimes, in a relationship, one person does something that tests the other person. It could be something little, like perhaps they leave a wet towel on the bed, or possibly, they buy really expensive shoes for no reason other than that they're cute...maybe they subsequently abandon said shoes in the direct path of the doorway. * Or it could be something bigger...Like accidentally abandoning your husband while he deals with the large angry man that you inadvertently pissed off. My husband J and I had decided we had to go see Borat, and while I'm forever scarred by what I shall refer to as the "wrestling scene," it was awesome. But that's not really the point of this tale. As we arrived at the theater, we observed that the parking lot was extremely crowded, and there was a lot of jockeying for spots. As we drove straight down the main thoroughfare of the lot, a large SUV darted out halfway from another row, and then proceeded to honk at us. I guess, because we were driving in a straight line down the main street that he was trying to turn onto without observing in any way, or signaling. I secretly have a touch of road rage, which is triggered when other drivers pull crap like this. This is not good, as I am a tiny little person, and probably could not defend myself against an irritated toddler, much less anyone operating a motor vehicle like an ass. Now J was driving, not me, but still I was irked. I didn't do anything too terrible; I just threw up my hands and got an incredulous/annoyed look on my face, in the universal signal for "dude, what the hell?!" Assuming that this thing was over, and realizing the parking situation was bad, J dropped me off in front of the theater. The very SUV with whom we had just had this exchange then pulls in front of us sideways. I assumed there was a spot nearby, and he wanted to grab it first, to beat us to it or whatever, so I hop on into the theater to pick up the tickets, without turning around. Some time passes, and it dawns on me that its taking J a really really long time to find a spot. I receive an urgent phone call from J a few minutes later, telling me to hide or something, as the driver of the SUV was after me. So...it seems that the driver had erroneously construed my little gesture as something much more insulting; namely, the finger. This had angered him. He was not, as I had thought, going for a nearby spot when he pulled his car in front of ours, but rather, boxing in our car so my husband couldn't move. My husband then felt it imperative to share with me that the driver, a burly Russian man, with implied mob connections, and a definite temper, was looking for me inside. He had spent the last few minutes haranguing J about my giving him the finger (I didn't! I swear!), and making vague general threats. And I, oblivious to it all, had accidentally left him to deal with this, when I was the one who caused it. I felt so bad. (Needless to say, the guy was obviously in the same movie as us. Of course.) On the bright side, the next time I leave a wet towel on the bed, it will pale in comparison to this. *Okay, I actually do all of these things.

Random...

Today, while attempting to buy a bottle of water, the vendor of said water pauses, sort of cocks his head to the side, and studies me. "What?" I say. "You look like a stewardess," he says. Clearly, at this point, I'm sort of speechless, because really, what do you say to that? So, I say the only thing that comes to mind: "Actually, they're now called flight attendants." Oh, yeah. I'm smooth like that.

Five Months :)

Dear ER...

Stop trying to be relevant and hook people in with your (allegedly) can't miss storylines; no one has watched since approximately 1997. I'm also not too pleased with the vaguely threatening announcer who infers that if I do, in fact, miss tonight's "very special" episode, life may no longer be worth living, and we who miss it may perish. Possibly at the hands of said announcer. It's enough, ER; you're acting like the drunk desperate girl at the bar, and it's not attractive.

Ewww...

I have certain words that I cannot hear without them eliciting a visceral shuddering reaction from me. I dont know why. Anyway, today I heard three of my most hated words, which, in addition to making me want to throw up, is sort of a coincidence, as the words have nothing in common. The words are: moist, pluck, tinkle, jiggly and proactive (the last one is a product of my working in a corporate buzzword-intensive company. If I had a drink every time I heard the word proactive, I would be....well, very drunk indeed).

Awesome

Holy crap. Someone mentioned the existence of this puppet to me, and was shocked that I'd never heard of her. (There's a sentence I can honestly say I've never written before.) Anyway, I did my own research, and stumbled across this. I do believe that the first paragraph is the most awesome collection of sentences I've ever read. I strive to one day write something as wonderful.

You Sexy Thing

I must make an observation that has plagued me around this time every year. It's Halloween, and the time comes to select a costume. Lately, it seems that every woman has opted to slut up her chosen costume, no matter how inherently unsexy the basic costume idea may be. I'm sure I could pontificate here about the impetus for this, perhaps something blaming the rise of Paris Hilton and her ilk, but literally a million people have discussed that before me, and better, so I'm going to leave that alone for now. So. My real point is, if you want to be a whore for Halloween, then go for broke, own up to it, and be the dirtiest whore there is. Or French maid. Or Playboy Bunny. Something that makes sense. Why, for instance, does one need to be Sexy Strawberry Shortcake? Strawberry Shortcake is a doll for small girls. Small, innocent girls not attired in green striped thigh highs. Other common offenders are the costumes intended to represent the civil servant professions; the sexy policewoman, for instance. A real police officer's outfit consists of unflattering polyester pants and an equally ill-fitting blouse. Not a black miniskirt, handcuffs, and, you know, your boobs. Are you dressing up as a sexy bee, rodent, or livestock or any kind? Also not hot, and if you think about it, the "sexifying" of such creatures is really really disturbing. I mean, I'm sure there is actual bee porn out there (and I'm petrified to even google that, let alone link to what I'd find), but I don't think it's mainstream enough to warrant a costume. It's not that I'm against sexy costumes; they just need to make some sort of sense, and not be, upon inspection, horrifying on numerous psychological levels.