Waxing Nostalgic

People.

I need your thoughts here.

This is completely trivial, and has no bearing whatsoever on my life, but still. I MUST KNOW.

I was at a new salon a few days ago, and as I waited there for my appointment, a young girl that I assumed was about 14 or 15 walked in. She sat down and, essentially proving my point, pulled out a geometry textbook. (Well, I think it was a geometry textbook. I’m not what you'd call "a math person." Triangles and cylinders were involved.) Anyway, I assumed she was there to get her eyebrows shaped, until the receptionist asked her what she wanted done.

Now, I must take a Zack Morris time-out for a second here:

I fear specifying precisely what salon service she was there for, as the Google searches that are coming here lately are mind-bogglingly dirty beyond all human comprehension. Trust me. And so, rather than explicitly stating what it was, I’ll speak in oblique euphemisms, as is my habit. She was there for a…bajillion tankini fax. “Bajillion” in honor of its cost, as well as the level of pain, on a scale of 1-10, that it tends to generate. I know of which I speak. Or so I’ve heard. “Tankini fax” because…well, it (sort of) rhymes.

Sorry to beat around the bush. (Hee! I HAD TO.)

Back to the story:

“[Bajillion tankini fax]!” the young girl said brightly to the receptionist.

The receptionist nodded.

The girl went back to her textbook.

I attempted to maintain an aura of casual indifference.

But inwardly, I felt like this:

My mind raced to find something, anything, to explain why a 14/15-year old was there getting a bajillion.

She could’ve just been a young-looking and dimwitted 20-year old, doing 9^th grade math, right?

Or a tutor, maybe? Going over her pupil's assignment? Right? Right?!

Perhaps she was a 21 Jump Street-type narc, involved in a covert salon sting operation of some sort? (Note: I desperately wanted this to be true most of all, in the hopes of Johnny Depp, circa 1989, paying us a visit. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d be overjoyed to see Johnny Depp even in his nasty-ass Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas days. Speaking of? I will pay you a bajillion dollars if you can tell me what that movie was actually about. Gah! Digressing.)

But I didn’t think any of these possibilities were actually true, of course.

And that really freaked me out.

I wasn’t her age all that long ago, and as I reflect upon those times, I distinctly recall not one of them involving a bajillion tankini fax. If only there was some way to confirm that, though…

*knock, knock*

Ooh! Look who’s here! My eighth-grade diary! What’s that, eighth-grade diary? An excerpt, you say? Well, okay!

[Boy] and I are really good friends. He is my best friend who is a boy. [Friend] thinks he likes me likes me. Whatever. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Maybe I will invite him to my Gymnastics Jamboree. [2007 Me: Um…Oh, my God?] Oh I love this song! It’s Bermuda, Bahamas. It’s on the radio right now. My other favorite songs right now are: The Sign and Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm. [2007 Me: What the hell kind of song was I talking about?]

I know people say this all the time, but these kids? They’re growing up too fast. What happened to the old days, where young girls talked of crushes and terrible, terrible music with nary a thought of a bajillion fax? And what of the Gymnastics Jamboree?! WHAT OF IT, I SAY? Those were simpler times; better times.

In any case, I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this; I need to know if I'm warranted in finding this a bit crazy, or if I'm totally off-base and behind the times, and in fact, am actually turning into this lady (only with much better lip gloss):

Friends, Pictures and Hobos, Oh My (UPDATED: The People Have Spoken; Bring On The Hobo Picture!)

Last night, I had dinner with my dear friend, Collette.* Collette and I have been friends since our senior year of college, and she is absolutely one of the funniest people I know, in addition to being an amazing friend. She is also one of the only people in the world who actually appreciates the brilliance of this. Oh, and she's beautiful.) Therefore, please indulge my backstory: Collette was friends with my roommate, and upon coming to visit said roommate one night early in the year, the two of them launched into the most heart-wrenching duet of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” that I’d ever heard, before or since. For that, I immediately loved her, but it was not until we wound up in the same literature thesis class that we became friends. You know how people have war buddies? Well, Collette and I went through a war, of sorts. You see, our professor…huh. Hmm. How do I put this? At the risk of sounding indelicate, I’ll express our problem with our professor through my world-reknowned acrostic poetry, as I am wont to do: She was…not young, and had A very large problem, and Given that I am nothing if not a refined lady, God forbid I actually specify to You what, exactly, it was! Basically, it was established in our class that One would do well to look the Other way when she Beckoned for you to See her, on Account of the…view. Nobody escaped the wrath of her chestal region Death Star-like, it pulled us in.** Need I mention that Our collective minds were forever scarred? Her Blouses were always Really low cut, too. And loose. Ew. ~Fin~ And so it was that Collette and I bonded over our mutual desire to barf every time our professor leaned forward. That led to actually discussing our coursework (NERDS!), which subsequently evolved into a real friendship, and a standing date with a few of our other friends at this bar almost every Tuesday night throughout senior year. We've kept in close contact since then, and used to get together at least once a month, but lately, it’s been more difficult to find the time. Determined to remedy that, we made plans to get together last night. I arrived a few minutes early at the restaurant, and waited for Collette outside. This proved to be a most fortuitous decision on my part. You know how I have a tendency to attract hobos? And yet, I can never back up my stories with any sort of photographic evidence? Well, that changes today, people. (Maybe. Read on:) As I waited for Collette, a hobo in a wheelchair rolled by me with a sign reading “Homeless and disabled! Please! HELP!!!!!" (In the interest of full disclosure, I couldn’t count the actual number of exclamation points, but suffice it to say that they were plentiful.) He glared at me, and in a wholly unexpected turn of events, did not hand me a Jesus card, ask me if he could pet my coat, or tell me that I am “the sexy”. No, he simply staked out a spot on the street corner. As each woman passed, he would shout either “Ho!” or “Mary!” I don't know upon what criteria he based his determinations, but watching it was like seeing a really insulting grown-up version of “Duck, Duck, Goose” (entitled, of couse, “Ho, Ho, Mary”). Tiring of this activity, the hobo looked around, and got up from his wheelchair. (Faker!) And proceeded to whip out his hobo man junk. And pee. Publicly. In broad daylight. He was very (pardon the expression) ballsy about it, too, purposely choosing to get up and go when there was a red light, and the stopped cars would have to see him. Don’t believe me? Well, I did take a picture of him in action (don't worry; it's from behind. and you can't see anything objectionable), but I hesitate to post it, lest you all think it mean of me to do so. Let me know what you think, and that will determine whether or not I post this most classy of pictures. The power is in your hands! UPDATE: The vast majority of you have expressed your wish to see the peein' hobo. Per your request: Collette arrived shortly thereafter, and we had a lovely time, which only served to remind me how much I adore hanging out with her. The one thing we neglected to discuss, Collette, was our unending debate as to which Manning brother reigns supreme. (Suck it, Eli!) Put it on our dinner agenda for next time! (Oh, yes. We have agendas. We’re relaxed and laid-back like that. It started out as a joke, but now? Not so much.) ********** Finally, you guys rocked with your shorts-suit advice. I love you. I think I will buy the suit, and if nothing else, just wear the pieces separately. Also? Thank you for your sweet comments on Toopweets. He really does smile most of the time. The following picture, however, represents those rare occasions when he does not: Because I can’t leave you with that, here he is, dressed up at Turtle from Entourage. I have no excuse or explanation, other than that it was raining, and I was bored. * Not her real name. It is the name she supplies when she’s out, and annoying men (who I imagine look like this) approach her, and will not go away: ** Is that an accurate analogy? I’ve never seen Star Wars, so I’m just guessing here.

Can't...Form...Sentences

...So I'll just post this instead.

(Mainly because I'm testing out lovely slideshow feature in my new Photobucket account. Sorry to use you in such a fashion.) Also? Pretty please help me with the following: Is this look office-appropriate? I'm asking because while I think the suit is adorable, I can't see myself wearing (what technically equates to) shorts at work. Unless, of course, this is The New Thing, and once again, as with the leggings that seem to have descended upon us, unbidden, I find myself unable to adapt. Please advise. Actual cohesive blog post will follow once I finish reorganizing my closet. (So...approximately September '09.)

Picture This

If you’re anything like me, then there have been times in your blogging career when you’ve come across something, and thought to yourself, “Hot damn! This is hilarious! I simply must write a post about this!” And then, after you wondered when, exactly, you became a grizzled, elderly coal miner who actually says things like “hot damn,” you began to worry if the funny thing really was all that hilarious, and refrained from posting it.

(And then, if you’re really like me, you’ll wonder why you can never pronounce “indignant” properly, whether or not you should say something to your crazy neighbor about her penchant for relieving stress by bouncing a rubber ball repeatedly against your shared wall, and if it’s a problem that you’ve had 3, count e'm, 3 fudgesicles so far today. )

Well, I’m taking a stand. No longer will I be shackled by my fears! The following item may not be terribly funny to you, but by gum,* I think it’s utterly uproarious. **

First, a bit of background. One of my brothers is also into photography. While on our recent trip to my parents’ house (wherein we encountered the Doll of Dirrrty), I went through his photography books to see if there was anything I could borrow. Among the actual, helpful books, I also found a small photography book from the 1950’s, which he had picked up for its comedic value at a vintage bookstore. I can’t adequately convey the hilarity of the tone in which this book was written. It’s definitely a product of its time, with such gems as how to get the best shots of a “vivacious model, full of pep and enthusiasm.” There is also useful advice, like “Never use your photography as a means of…getting a girl out in the woods.” The whole thing reminds me of this:

Best of all, though, is the introduction to the book itself. Now, there is no possible way for me to do justice to the Best Foreword Ever Written, so here it is:

My friends, meet Peter Gowland...photographer of women! The greatest pin-up artist of them all! I did some research, and though it seems that he actually has some clout, the foreword contains what is no doubt some of the most over-the-top prose ever written by the hand of man. (See? I can do it, too!)

It is now my goal to live a life that will one day inspire someone to write something like this about me.

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

Speaking of photography, I now submit to you a picture I took (albeit with my camera phone), which is Exhibit # 1,034,459 in the “Hot Damn! I’m a Pervert!” file:

I am a grown-up.

I pay taxes, go food shopping, and other grown-uppy things.

I am someone’s mother, for God’s sake.

And yet? I COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING AT THE NAME OF THIS ICE CREAM.

I STILL CAN’T.

I’m sorry, but “Milky Pleasures”?! I’m not made of stone!

Send help.

***********

And finally, the winner of the “grossest drink” contest is Stephanie. I think you’ll agree that this prize is well-deserved:

“…[T]hey called it a "bloody tampon." It's Yukon Jack® Canadian whisky, lemon juice, tequila, vodka, vegetable juice, Bailey's® Irish cream. You put the lemon juice in at the end, which causes the cream to curdle and become somewhat tampon-shaped.”

Now, the drink’s name alone is gag-inducing, but the combination of ingredients, plus that visual? Well, it just makes me want to hurl. Congratulations, Stephanie! Send me your address, and your prize will be on its way.

________________________________

*That would be the coal miner talking again.

**(I saw that I had written “funny” and “hilarious” like twelve times already, and, inspired by -R-'s recent post, thought to myself, “What word would James Lipton use?”)

Me, GG, and a Contest for Thee II: Electric Boogaloo (UPDATED)

I'll get to the fun stuff referenced in the post's title in a moment...first, I have to tell you about my trip to the dentist.

[Internet proceeds to frantically click the "back" button, taking them far, far away from all this thrilling dentist talk]

I take pretty good care of my teeth, flossing daily and whatnot, so I'm not really nervous about going to the dentist. Particularly my dentist. He's a little nutty, and strikes me as a hybrid of Doc Brown in Back to the Future (down to the long white hair) and Mr. Monopoly. Today, for instance, his brand new purebred puppy was brought to the office, whereupon said puppy was shown off to all who were present. During another recent visit, while I sat there being tortured by the hygienist, he peeked in, and (as the hygienist and I took in his crazy, windblown white hair sticking up every which way,) said to us, "I have one piece of advice for you: Do not drive your new convertible with the top down when your hair is wet."

Yes. Yes! This is precisely the kind of useful advice I need, right up there with, “How much to tip your houseboy." "What to do if your diamond-encrusted gloves are too small." and of course, "Which champagne is best for christening your new yacht." Despite this, he is extremely competent, and couldn't be nicer. Each and every time I see him, however, I'm disappointed by something. You see, whenever I go the dentist, I engage in a 20-minute long brushing and flossing regimen prior to my departure, secretly hoping each time that the following situation will transpire:

Hygienist: Hi there! [Waits until she starts rooting around my mouth to ask me a series of involved questions:] How are you? How’s your family? What’s your theory on Lost? How do you think we can achieve world peace?

Me: Flarggg; hmm shmmfff—

H: [Gasps] Oh. My. God. Your teeth are… perfect! They couldn’t be cleaner! There’s nothing left for me to do here. Hold on, let me show Gladys!

M: [Blushing] Well y’know, I try…

H: Gladys! GLADYS! Look at her teeth!

Gladys: They’re…glorious! [Weeps.]

Delivery Guy: What’s all the commotion?! I was just in the neighborhood, and…my God, those teeth are FLAWLESS!

Dentist: [Enters room, wipes away tear, commences The Slow Clap.] Well done, my dear. Well done. Run along now, and tell the world of your peerless dental hygiene!

Annnnnd...scene.

Needless to say, that NEVER happens. Jerks.

*******

And now, for something that is the complete and total opposite of the suckiness that is going to the dentist: My evening with Guinness Girl!

We’ve met before, on one of her earlier trips to New York, so this is going to sound repetitive, but she? Is awesome. Seriously, make it your business to hang out with her at some point in your life. She is insightful, sweet, and hilarious. I was crying from laughing too many times to mention, and simply adore her.

Here we are:

Why do I look like I'm hitting on her/the photographer?

I took her to the Flatiron Lounge, where we had many amazing and unique drinks, including one that contained egg whites, a first for both of us. Our waitress explained to us that this is actually common in certain “real” cocktails for the texture it imparts, and behold, she was right. Who knew? Such philistines we are. (The drink, by the way, was fantastic.) Speaking of weird things in drinks (as well as the fact that the last time GG and I got together, the subsequent post announced a contest), …CONTEST TIME!

You see, after the egg white chat with our waitress, we got to talking about the most disgusting things we’d mixed with alcohol in our younger days. Young GG had tried a drink that put mine to shame, but I’ll let her tell you about that, should she choose to enter the contest that our discussion inspired...which, is, officially, as follows:

What is the grossest thing you’ve ever mixed with alcohol and subsequently drank? (Bonus points if the resultant concoction has a fun name.)

The prize is an adorable lip gloss treat (seriously, it's super cute), and a CD of the songs on my iTunes Playlist of Shame. (Okay, okay, I’ll also throw in some good music.) As always, the foxy and impartial J will help me judge.

Hit it.

UPDATE: Um, hi; I completely forgot to link to the lipgloss prize...and to specify that the contest ends Friday.

Five Questions

The witty and shiny-haired lip gloss expert Whoorl has generously thrown some interview questions my way. And really, you should seriously thank her, because this post was originally going to be about a license plate I just saw which read LV FRT, and the song I promptly made up (to the tune of “Love Shack,” no less), entitled “Love Fart.” You just dodged a major bullet. (Well, except maybe the vanity plate-loving Malia; she might have been interested in that.)

Without further ado:

1. If you could change one thing about yourself (physically or emotionally), what would it be?

Hmmm. Well, while I am generally extremely non-confrontational (even when, by all rights, I should speak up in a given situation), it’s actually something I’m trying to change already, so I’ll leave that aside and focus on the stupid and external; thus, I would change this:

Allow me to explain. I have...eyebrow issues. Remember this? I was, for a time, Acting President of the United States of Unibrow. Granted, I've rectified the situation since then, but it's be nice if the brows didn't require quite so much upkeep. I've often thought about what I'd do if I was on Survivor (a show I don't even watch, mind you), and just how I'd smuggle a set of tweezers onto the island. And so, the answer to this question is: "To have effortlessly perfect eyebrows that, when left untweezed, do not grow to resemble the thatch of muppet fur resting atop Bert's forehead."

2. Jelly Bellies or Twizzlers? Why?

A most excellent question. The answer here would have to be Jelly Bellies, for many reasons. First and foremost, the variety of flavors is, quite frankly, mind boggling. I’ve never tried one I haven’t liked, but then again, I even like black jelly beans, so that’s probably not all that surprising. Jelly Bellies are also wee, so you don’t feel as if you’re consuming a metric ton of sugar. Even though, you know…you are. And what of the adorable “recipe” cards they used to have in the boxes? You know, where they would tell you to take one vanilla ice cream bean and two caramel beans and then you’d have crème brulèe, or something? (Note: I just did some research to make sure that I didn’t completely imagine that recipe card thing, and it turns out that this childhood memory is, in fact, accurate. Though I may have made up those flavors.)

The funny thing is, despite my love of pretty much all foods (including the aforementioned black jelly beans. And root beer. Oh, and Brussels sprouts. And...well, you get the idea. The idea being that I like some unpopular shit.), I really don’t like Twizzlers. They just taste starchy and weird to me. I’m fairly certain, however, that my issues with Twizzlers stem from the fact that, as a kid, whenever my friends and I ate them, we would bite off the top and bottom and USE THE TWIZZLER AS A STRAW FOR OUR SODA. Say it with me now: *Hurl* I don’t know why we did this; only that we did, and in retrospect, it is incomprehensibly vile.

Note: My dislike of Twizzlers does not extend to licorice…string things (what are they called?); I like those bad boys.

3. How many children would you like to have?

There are moments where I’m with Toops and think to myself, “Sure! I could handle doing this again right now!” And then there are the moments, the scary fever moments, the “screw-you-guys-I’m-not-napping-EVAH!” moments, the projectile poo moments (thankfully long past), where I really feel the full weight of being a mom. As each day passes, though, and T becomes less and less of a baby, and more of a little boy, I’m equal parts incredibly thrilled at his progress, and at the same time strangely wistful that I don’t have a “real” baby anymore. And it’s times like that make me realize just how much I love the adventure (and it is an adventure) of being his mom. And that is my long-winded way of saying that I would love to do it again. I come from a family of three kids, and always thought that was a good amount.

4. If you could live anywhere in the US, where would it be?

J and I talk all the time about where we want to live when we “grow up.”

Note to self: Pssst! DUDE. Wake up. You’re nearing 27, you’re married with a child, have a job, and own an apartment. I think you’re considered a “grown up.”

Self: Noooooooo!

Ahem. Just ignore them. Anyway, what I mean to say is that we talk about where we want to live when we’re ready to buy a house. If we could live anywhere in the US, no strings attached, it’d definitely be someplace warm, like Cali or Florida. I loathe icky cold and wet New York winters. When it comes down to it, though, we were both born and raised in/around New York, and our respective families are still relatively close by, so we’ll likely end up staying up here.

I know, I know; so boring, right? But think of the hobos! They need me! They’d be lost without me! I’m doing it for them, really.

5. Would you rather drink wine or martinis for the rest of your life?

This was a TOUGH one! At first I was thinking that my answer would be wine, because how would it work, exactly, if we were going over to some friends for dinner, and I’d chosen martinis for the rest of my life? Ordinarily I’d bring wine, but under this new mandate, I’d be forced to say, “Here, guys! I brought you some…martinis!” Which is really cumbersome, in terms of lugging the various ingredients with you, not to mention the shaker and glasses, and hi, I have a tendency to over-think things a bit. Gah. Potential dinner party faux pas aside, I’d say martinis, only because you have more variety. (I can pick different types, right? It’s not just a straight-up martini?) Also, if I’m drinking one of them for the rest of my life, a martini looks much more bad ass than a glass of wine, don’t you think? And if you know anything about me, I’m all about the badassery.

Want to play, too? I've always fancied myself a young, female, non-curmudgeonly Andy Rooney. (Or at the very least, marginally more talented than that annoying Extra! "correspondent" who always shows up on America's Next Top Model with an inflated sense of her own relevance.) Here's how it works:

1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” (If I don't have your email address already, either leave it in the comment or email me at metaliablog@gmail.com)

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Mothers, Lock Up Your Daughters...

...For there is a DEEPLY disturbing doll out there. But first, I shall hold you hostage with my vacation recap! (I'm crafty like that.)

We've spent the past week-and-a-half traipsing across New York and New Jersey, visiting J’s family and my own. We started off at J’s parents’ house in Long Island, where we hung out with them, as well as his sister, my brother-in-law, and their unreasonably cute kids. Have I mentioned the cuteness? For it is abundant. There was much playing, a severe lack of napping, and general nonstop action. Oh, and many fun presents for Toopweets.

While we were sad to go, we then made our way to my parents in New Jersey. Also at Casa…uh…Metalia’s Parents was my cousin and her boyfriend (in addition to said parents, my two brothers, my brother's girlfriend, and us). Oh, and my parents’ big-ass dog. Toopweets quickly fell in love with the dog, and proceeded to have the time of his life, attempting to chase the damn thing everywhere. I say “attempting,” as he can only move by rolling or crawling backwards, and he was thus not as successful as he might have hoped. (Ordinarily, I’d be leery of my sweet potato-coated babe chasing after a fanged carnivorous animal, but you must understand--this is the dumbest, slowest dog in the history of the world.)

Miraculously, Toops continued to go to bed at his regular early bedtime, which freed us up to do many important things, such as play a never-ending and cutthroat game of Taboo with the aforementioned crew. J and I are an unstoppable Taboo machine, but all the couples split up to make the game interesting. (You know, unlike this post.) J has an uncanny knack of being able to take any partner and form a winning Taboo team, even if he barely knows them. He’s like an Eastern European gymnastics coach circa 1976, only without the mustache and emotional abuse. Needless to say, he and his teammate (my cousin’s boyfriend) won. I feel like you never leave a game of Taboo without learning something new and weird, and this time, it was the fact that there is a song entitled “Lesbian Seagull.” (Which my cousin sang to me, sans the “seagull” part, as she tried, in vain, to have me guess that word. Seriously, I had no idea that this was a song. Did you?)

Awesomely, our trip coincided with the visit of our good friends from Cali; we got to see them, too, along with their gorgeous little girl. My parents’ house is well-equipped with all manner of toys, and in anticipation of their arrival, my mom pulled out a dollhouse. As she placed the attendant dolls out on the floor, my father made a face of abject horror, and said, “Good Lord! What IS that?!”

“That” turned out to be a doll, which, from my angle, seated on the floor with Toopweets, looked perfectly innocent...

She is rockin' that camel toe!

...but from my (standing) dad's vantage point, appeared to be something else entirely...

...which was then confirmed by my mother, who was seated:

Don’t tell me this is an accident, LITTLE TIKES!

Of course, we needed to confirm that we were not alone; using the doll as our Rorschach Test of the Dirrrrty, we quite literally thrust (hee!) the doll at anyone who happened to come by, demanding that they tell us what they saw. We were relentless; we did it to my grandmother, my neighbor…In fact, I’m fairly certain that if your grandmother were there, we would’ve asked her, too. Good god. Between this and my last two posts, this blog is fast descending into "found porn" territory. Tomorrow: A post about rainbows, ponies, and daisies!

In other news, I've abandoned my longtime lovah, the Starbucks Cinnamon Dolce Latte, for its new friend, Dulce de Leche Latte, and I haven't looked back. Look into it; it is indescribably delicious.

Too Many Puns to Choose From

J and I have always been big readers. While we tend to enjoy many of the same genres, there is one he likes that I simply cannot abide. (I think he feels the same way about my occasional Nanny Diaries-genre tendencies.) The type of books to which I refer consists of ludicrous plots which center around macho dudes with hypermasculine and vaguely porny names saving the day. My knowledge of said books is derived solely from reading the blurbs on the back, but from what I’ve gleaned, they tend to go a little something like this:

Brock Hardwick is a man with a troubled past. Kicked out of the Navy SEALS for his renegade style, he’s now a gun-for-hire. When a group of terrorists sets their sights on blowing up every Starbucks in America, the President calls upon the only man he can trust-- Brock Hardwick. With a mysterious and beautiful FBI informant named Monique as his guide through the dangerous world of international coffee terrorism, Brock races against the clock, hell-bent on decaffeinating the terrorists’ plans. No one can serve up a steaming mug of Café Americano justice…like Brock Hardwick.

You get the idea.

J brought one of these books home recently, entitled The Lions of Lucerne, and I inspected it. The author’s name is “Brad Thor,” and I feel comfortable in saying that I suspect it may be a pseudonym. The accolades on the book are equally hilarious; according to Dan Brown, “Brad Thor is as current as tomorrow’s headlines,” and People feels that, “Bottom line—Lions roars!” I was all set to put it back down when I noticed the most awesome thing ever. And it’s not the gilded lion (possibly of Lucerne) inexplicably eating an American flag:

No, what I noticed is on the back, specifically on the price sticker. Borders appears to have... mislabeled the book:

Behold: THE LOINS OF LUCERNE.

See, I think a book with such a name should look a little more like this, don’t you?

I. Have. No. Words.

(Sort of NSFW.)

Mercury? Really?

I'll be out of commission, so to speak, for the next few days; we're spending Passover with our families; first J's, then mine. This will be a fun-filled extravaganza of kiddies, food, and nonstop packing and unpacking, so please excuse me for falling behind on your blog-lives, albeit temporarily. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this very important thought: I pass a Nine West store on my way to work each morning. The past few weeks, I've seen a shoe in the window display which fills me with such horror that I'm rendered momentarily speechless literally each time I see it, such is its fugliness. The shoe in question? The Tobago. First and foremost, I just learned the name of the shoe by searching the Nine West website. In so doing, I also learned that this shoe is not silver, but MERCURY. Whatever, Nine West. That, however, is actually the least of my problems. The crux of the matter is that Tobago is perhaps the ugliest, most unflattering shoe that I've ever seen:

See what I mean? Completely covers up all (ostensibly) attractive areas of the foot, and it has a CLEAR WEDGE HEEL. (Hard to make out in the above picture, but there all the same.) It's like...it's like...a stripper shoe for the elderly. Geriatric G-String Divas, or something. And? They have the audacity to charge $89 for this affront to fashion.

Could it be any uglier?