Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
1. Toopweets is almost 1. That is insane.
2. My husband met Oprah on an escalator this past week. For realsies.
3. I cannot tell you the joy it gives me to see a man with a handlebar mustache. I could be having the shittiest day, but if I see a dude rocking one of those bad boys, I will start grinning nonstop. Because handlebar mustaches are funny.
4. Apropos of which, so is this (because it cannot be said enough, I am 5).
5. Ever the bandwagon jumper, I joined twitter. Um, now what? How do I add friends and stuff, (thus furthering my quest of completely wasting all the free time I have)? Help.
6. This book is phenomenal;
7. To be continued here
Friday, May 25, 2007
I guess their phrase is shorter.
The only thing that inevitably calmed me down was this picture in the catalog:
This poor child is not, as I initially thought, wearing a pair of PullUps on his head after a particularly rowdy playdate. No, the tot is wearing the classy and attractive Bumper Bonnet. Isn’t he stylin’? Each time I got to this page in the catalog, I’d chuckle inwardly, and stroke my burgeoning belly as this ridiculous product (and unintentionally hilarious picture) aided me in regaining my sense of perspective. “What kind of overprotective and crazy mother would buy this thing?” I’d wonder to myself each time I saw it, with the naiveté that only a first-time mom can possess.
Funny how a mere (almost) 12 months can change things.
My kid is constantly moving. Not a day goes by where he does not, on at least two or three occasions, bump himself in some way, despite our best efforts to prevent this. Sure, he keeps crawling/cruising on by, basically unfazed, but my guilt? It is copious.
I’m sure you can see where this is going…
…A part of me now secretly wants to buy the Bumper Bonnet.
I said secretly!
I'm normally a fairly logical person. I've made it this far, resisting the baby wipe warmer, laughing my ass off at the Dior baby bottle, and shaking my head at the musical pacifier, but this? I don’t know what it is, but somehow, it’s starting to make sense.
Save me from myself.
I have to go; T’s gotten himself wedged under the end tables again.*
*I kid, I kid. Pretty please don’t call Child Services. He’s actually sleeping, securely (buckled into his ridiculously overpriced stroller, perhaps the one baby product trap to which I fell prey).
Sunday, May 20, 2007
“Are You Perhaps my Secret Twin?”
Open your test booklets:
1. Are the children of the world working your last nerve with their devil wheelie shoes?
2. If you came across this product while food shopping, would you purchase it? 3. Are you irked by the current trend of referring to all things environmentally friendly as “green” ? (Suck it, “green” toothpicks. You’re not green. Come talk to my chartreuse Pringles! Which are weirdly delicious, by the way.)
4. After noting that your total purchase exceeded $500, would you still return your shopping cart to the locking chain thing to retrieve your goddamn quarter? (In case you’re unfamiliar, some stores require you to put a quarter into the cart to “unlock” it from the other carts to which it’s chained.)
5. Let's say you saw Days of Thunder by the register on the “$9.99 or less!” DVD rack, enticing you with its nostalgic packaging, and your own cherished memories of Tom Cruise (a.k.a. one Mr. Cole Trickle) uttering such gems as, “Speed…To be able to control it. To know that I can control something that's out of control." Would you strongly consider buying it, rather than walking on by like a normal person? (Note: Logic prevailed, and I refrained, but the question is, would you consider it.)
Sharpened number 2 pencils only, please.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Hola, Isabel is the inspiration for today's post. She is wonderful for many reasons, not the least of which being that she and I share the same philosophy on baby boy clothes (i.e., Death to Pooh, long live the pint-sized concert tee). Her post today displayed the contents of her bag and invited others to do the same. After I had a (frankly not all that surprising) droolfest over her beauty products, I decided to play along: Some highlights:
New flip flops -- These were purchased today. Were you aware that Nine West started carrying Havaianas, my absolute favorite flip flops? For I was not. I'm not going to question why, but only revel in their glory, and the surprising ease with which I was able to find a pair of black ones in my size. (Size 7 is always the first to go...SO WHY DON'T THE STORES ANTICIPATE THIS, AND ORDER MORE, THEN?! ARGGGGGHHH!). Ahem.
TOO MANY lip products -- I think I have a problem. I must give a shout-out to my email buddy (and ridiculously talented photographer) Nabbalicious for turning me on to the wonders of Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker, featured below. It gives a perfect hint of shine, has a touch of sheer color, and tastes yummy. Also? It costs like 12 cents (okay, maybe $1.50). I don't care what color your lips are, this WILL look great on you; buy it. While we're on the subject...If you have dark brown eyes, as I do, I heartily recommend the following eyeliners, both in the picture above (next to my all-time favorite mascara)--Marine by Chanel (it's black with a hint of deep blue and moss, which sounds like a mess, but really makes your eyes "pop"), and the significantly cheaper Dark Green (original!) by Prestige. I use the latter verrrrrry sparingly, as too much of it can and will make you look like you work hard for your money, if you know what I mean, and I think that you do. Just a touch, however, will give you a certain je ne se quois. (French for "that which does not make you look like a whore.")
Birthday Invitations -- Toopweets' first birthday is rapidly approaching, hence the pile of outgoing mail. (Hey, anyone have any idea what I should do with the invited children when they actually attend the party? Seriously. I'm scared.)
Red Wallet -- I was pickpocketed a while back, and that wallet was what the douchebag decided to take. It had been a gift from my mother-in-law, and I really loved it, so I was quite sad to see it go. A few weeks later, I received a package in the mail; inside was was my wallet. Everything was missing except for my license (hence how the mysterious angel person was able to return it to me), but it was back all the same. I know I bemoan the hobo situation here with some regularity, but it's things like this that remind me of how much I love
Granola Bar -- Look how prepared I seem! A granola bar, just in case I need a quick snack, right? In actuality, I have literally no idea when this found its way into the black hole of my bag, and it only really serves to illustrate that it's really really time to clean that sucker out.
What about you guys? What's in your bags? Let me know if you post a picture (especially if said picture contains beauty products of any sort).
Monday, May 14, 2007
Well, not so much a slacker, as I am absurdly busy at work, but potato, potahto, and all that.
I don’t know what the coming week holds, so I’ll just try to cram a whole mess o’ crap into this post, in the event that this week is also a busy one.
Happy Mother’s Day to all my fellow moms! My (first) Mother's Day was fantastic; I had a leisurely morning, and was served my favorite breakfast (a toasted salt bagel with cream cheese, in case you were curious. Which you undoubtedly are not. Nor can I blame you). We then saw our families, and I was the grateful recipient of a kickass gift from Toopweets: A day at this spa, which will involve a massage, a facial, and other stuff, but I was too busy dancing the Cabbage Patch at the thought of my much-needed massage to focus on the other stuff. My back is busted, people. Thank you, Toops (and J)!
I was reading the New York Times Magazine yesterday, and came across an interesting article, the basic point of which is that living in the age of blogs, MySpace, and YouTube is changing the way that new musicians attract and expand their fan base. I found the whole piece fascinating, but the thing that most excited me (out of the entire, well-written, comprehensive article) was this sentence right here:
“The first hit was an improbable cover song: [The musician’s] deadpan version of the 1992 Sir Mix-a-Lot rap song ‘Baby Got Back,’ performed like a hippie folk ballad.”
The internet altering how musicians find and subsequently interact with fans? A veritable sea change in the theory of music promotion? And perhaps, a shift in the concept of how a musician can actually find success?
Trifles, I say! Bring on the funny song! (And indeed, it is funny.)
Finally, I realized that I haven’t reviewed any products in a while, and I actually have a negative review. Personally, I always find those infinitely more entertaining, as evidenced by The New York Post’s scathing and utterly hilarious review of Ms. Lohan's new movie, entitled, “It Blohans.” (If you think that I do not plan on using that phrase to describe even the most tangential of Lindsay-related situations going forward, then you are giving me entirely too much credit.)
Do not be fooled.
Now, I’m a big fan of both lip balm and honey. But I must say, I’ve never before wanted to actually hurl from a lip balm, and I am someone who has experienced morning sickness the likes of which were triggered by even THINKING about the smell of shampoo. But...sweet bastard! The flavor and scent of this…thing is just ungodly. I've yet to encounter anything else like it. So far, I’ve detected a profusion of offensive odors in the balm, which are as follows:
~ Funeral home
~ Old, moldy ass
~ The industrial-strength air freshener that they spray after someone tosses their cookies on an indoor roller coaster/virtual reality ride. (This totally happened to me. Well, I wasn’t the culprit, but I was on the ride where it happened. Trust me, that stench will stick with you for a lifetime.)
~ Forgotten gym bag
And, finally, begrudgingly…
~ Honey (Albeit honey which was unearthed after being trapped in the manifold crevices of a Kodiak bear’s nether regions prior to him settling in for hibernation. That honey, and that honey alone.)
Please note: I’ve tried another flavor from this brand (i.e., peach), which was absolutely fine; it’s just this one that you should avoid. Although? I secretly want you to go to the store (it’s carried at Bath& Body Works) and smell it, just so you can see what I’m talking about.I’m kidding, of course.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
While watching the movie, I arrived at the inevitable Big Super-Important Dance Scene Upon Which the Main Character's Entire Dancing Career Depends (mandated, of course, by Article 3, Section VI, Subparagraph J of the Dance Movie Code). In this scene, the main character, Jody, dances to a song that I (heretofore) thought was entitled ''Candy in my Heels Tonight.'' As I watched the dance scene
for the fourth time in a row, I rolled my eyes at this utterly stupid chorus. Hearing this lyric, seemingly about candy in one's heels, made for a weird mental image, and, me being me, my mind somehow leaped to thinking about OTHER things that might be in one's heels, which inevitably brought me to this:**
This is seriously how my mind works. Be very afraid. Skeptical that these could really be the words to the song, I Googled the lyrics, at which point I learned that the actual phrase was CANNED HEAT, not candy.
“What kind of a person has canned heat in their heels?” I thought to myself.
As it turns out, I do.
For you see, I have farting shoes.
Allow me to explain.
In what will surely be a lesson to never clean out and organize my closet ever again, I discovered the offending footwear wayyyy in the back of my closet, buried beneath shoes, some bonus shoes, and just to change things up a bit…SHOES. The fart shoes are black leather flats that I had purchased but never worn, and somehow tossed into the abyss of my closet, forgotten…until now.
Upon discovering the shoes, I was thrilled. I mean, cute black flats? Who doesn’t need those? I decided to forego my planned-upon heels, and wear the black flats the very next day. All was going well until I stood up on the train as it pulled into the station, and I started to exit my seat. I began hearing…a distinctive sound. A sound which at first made me suspect that everyone in my immediate vicinity had eaten truck-stop enchiladas for breakfast. It soon dawned upon me, however, that the sound was coming from MY OWN FEET. Charming. It seemed that something about the shape of the shoes made them expel LOUD puffs of air with each step I took.
“Pfffbbbbt! “PWWWWRRRP!” said my shoes.
My seatmate, a middle-aged guy, looked at me with a mixture of disgust and what seemed to be admiration at my apparent brazen flatulence.
I tried to laugh it off, saying, “Oh, that? It wasn’t me! It was my shoes! Ha ha!” He shrugged...and went back to clandestinely picking his nose. Klassy!
All through the station, my shoes let out these weird, fart-sounding puffs of air. With each fartstep, I died a little inside. Particularly when I realized that my schedule was extremely packed, and would preclude me from having a free moment to stop and purchase a pair of mute footwear.
I attempted to make my way through the day by oh-so-casually gliding everywhere, rather than walking, so as to avoid the telltale noise, but I was no match for these shoes. First of all, I looked batshit insane doing this. Secondly, much like Jaws, the shoes learned from my behavior, and got smarter. I swear: They grew increasingly bold as the day went on, going so far as to make the noise when I merely shifted my weight from one foot to another in my apartment building’s (OBVIOUSLY) crowded elevator. Oh, the other passengers all tried to be nonchalant. But I know what they’ll think the next time they see me. And that thought will be, “Fart girl! Fart girl!” Or alternately, “Hey, here comes Farty!”
I believe with all my heart that I probably would have elicited fewer stares had I worn the leopard-print goldfish shoes.
Tempted as I was just to toss the stupid things, I kept them because If I have a free moment, I may attempt to make a video of myself walking in them so you can see/hear them in action. I'm caring like that. And also crazy._____________________
* Very purposefully added it to our NetFlix queue, and did a little jig of glee upon its arrival in our mailbox.
**You will have my undying love if, apropos of the goldfish shoes, this means anything to you: "Uh, your fish are dead."
Sunday, May 6, 2007
The blogging gods (Blods?) have been smiling favorably upon me lately. You see, this past week, they saw fit to grant me the opportunity to meet up with not one but TWO of my favorite bloggers. As you know, I do not shut up about my adoration for the lovely Guinness Girl. We have a fantastic time whenever she's in town, so I was pleased to no end when she informed me that she was going to be in NYC for training again. Alas, J was going to a Mets game that night, so this time, I could only meet her for a quick drink. Naturally, we made the most of it. Despite traveling through Grand Central Station every weekday, I’ve never been to this adjoining lounge, which is where we decided to go. It's very old-world banker-ish (if that makes sense to anyone else but me) and has the ambiance of a Prohibition-era speakeasy.
The drinks there are dangerous. From what I observed, all of them had a common theme. And if that theme could talk, it would say "Alcohol?! Gracious heavens, no! Why, there's nothing of the sort in here! We're just innocent drinks, and our delicious sweet flavors are not at all a camouflage for the fact that we contain a bathtub's worth of vodka, scotch, and rum! Hush now, drink up!" No joke. I could just tell that, had I consumed more than one, doing so would have had the unfortunate consequence of me performing my incomparable Christina Aguilera “Genie in a Bottle” dance. (Incomparable, because I've never before done it.) And then passing out, and mysteriously waking up in Nebraska
So, fortunately for all, it was just the one drink for me.
Guinness Girl, was, as always, hilarious, and I am continually amazed at her pretty glowiness. How? How do you do it, GG?! Also? She has the best, most fascinating stories EVAH. Seriously. Come back soon, missy!
Due to my crazy week, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in your lives, but I’ll catch up
over the weekend this week. (Damn. Well...this weekend flew.)