The Rest of the Story (AKA, But Wait! There's More!)

Oh, so you want to know about the rest of my trip, do you?

I was pleasantly surprised at the ease with which I breezed through airport security, and uneventfully made it to Chicago last Thursday.

I should have known that this would all balance itself out later on.

I arrived very early at O’Hare airport for my return flight. So early, in fact, that I was literally the first person at the gate. I had the whole place to myself. Were I so inclined, I could’ve performed a little of this:

Yeah, that’s right. Just take those old records off the shelf, baby.

(P.S. -- I think we could make a drinking game out of how many times I superimpose myself on iconic scenes from 80s movies.)

Tempting though it was (especially considering that I have “Old Time Rock and Roll” on my iPod for some reason), alas, I'd forgotten my tube socks, and so I sat down and read this book instead.

A few minutes later, a shifty-looking man came and sat down by the gate, as well. I glanced up at him, and went back to my book. Within a half hour, more people began trickling in, among them another guy who was also acting suspiciously. He took a seat at the opposite end of the gate, far away from the first guy, and sat there staring at everyone. Suspiciously. I began to get a bit nervous, but inasmuch as I am the world’s most edgy air traveler in even the best of circumstances, I tried to ignore it. I got up for a walk, and by the time I returned, the two sketchy dudes, who up until now had seemed unacquainted, were now seated next to each other in the far corner of the gate.

Taking notes.

And conferring over a laptop.

While the first guy mumbled into a cell phone with his hand over his mouth.

At this point, I decided that something had to be done. And so, I thought to myself, “What would Jack Bauer do?” I subsequently realized that Jack Bauer would call Chloe in order to hack into the man's laptop, but I DO NOT HAVE A CHLOE. He would also end up crawling through a vent at some point, but as I had worn a skirt, I was thus ill-prepared for such an endeavor. Finally, Jack Bauer would have also whisper-barked vague threats of corporeal harm at the men, and as those of you who have met me now know, I am really not that menacing. They probably would have wet themselves laughing if I’d pulled something like that.

Clearly, I was in over my head.

I “calmly” walked off in search of a bulky person in a Kevlar vest, preferably carrying a large gun. Which I immediately found. I told the agent what I’d seen, and apologized profusely for seeming paranoid. He, however, missed that last part because by that point, he was sprinting down the hall, speaking urgently into his walkie talkie. He returned with a plainclothes agent, who asked me for a description of the men, and went to go investigate.

The plainclothes agent came back not two minutes later, and asked me to follow him into a small office with my bags.

~BOW CHICKA BOW WOW~

Whoa! That’s not how this story goes!

No, he had asked to speak with me privately because, as he said, he didn’t want to embarrass me in front of the other officer.

The two suspicious gentlemen that I’d seen were air marshals, who are apparently supposed to arrive early for the flight, scope out the passengers, and then confer while reviewing the passenger manifest. Which, y'know, pretty much explains everything I’d seen.

AIR MARSHALS.

I TOLD ON MOTHERHUMPING* AIR MARSHALS.

Seriously.

I spent the remainder of time until boarding hiding in the bathroom.

But wait! There’s more!

The flight itself was without incident until we neared New York. Inclement weather prevented us from landing, and thus forced us into a holding pattern for about an hour. The pilot then got on the loudspeaker to inform us that “fuel issues” were going to require us to make a landing in Random Tiny Airport in Godonlyknowswhere, NY. It was a corn field, for crissakes, and I suspect that I saw a cow humping the plane.

After landing, we were informed that we’d refuel, and get right back on our way.

Which would have been fine, only by “right back on our way,” they apparently meant, “haha, suckas! We’re going to sit here for THREE HOURS, and by the way, the plumbing on this old ass plane leaves much to be desired, and is going to malfunction in five…four…three…two…showtime!”

Would you like to see my “Oh, my hell! The toilets are overflowing! WHERE AM I?!” face? I took and sent this picture to J as I sat on the runway in what was, for all intents and purposes, Hell. It’s pretty much the worst picture of me ever taken, but my journalistic integrity compels me to post it.

Shield your eyes!

The stench, which quickly permeated the cabin, reminded me of EVERY BAD THING I HAVE EVER SMELLED IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.

It was ungodly.

But wait! There’s more!

Finally, after the aforementioned THREE HOURS on the runway, we were cleared for takeoff. To celebrate, and eradicate the stench of Eau de Malfunctioning Plane Lavatory, I decided to apply some of my favorite lotion (I've mentioned it before), which I’d transferred to a tiny, TSA-friendly plastic bottle before my trip. As the plane shook wildly in the air, I noticed, for the first time, THE WORST LOGO EVER.

Not enough? Let's go in for a close-up:

Why?! Why the crashing plane?!

Fortunately, perhaps miraculously, we had a smooth landing in NY, and I was thrilled beyond belief to hug these guys again.

Why, yes, I do feed my son frozen fruit pops on a plastic garbage bag. Because I am classy.

So, who wants to go on a trip with me??

_______________________

*Inasmuch as Toopweets is repeating EVERYTHING we say lately, I’m going to try to get in the habit of not cursing. Let’s see how long this shit lasts.

Oops.

Not going to be easy.

PS: Today marks my one-year blogiversary!

Chicago, Chicago

I hate flying.

Like, really REALLY hate it.

Don’t get me started on people who say they love the peaceful freedom of soaring above the heavens, or the ones who FALL ASLEEP BEFORE THE PLANE TAKES OFF. (Dear Lord, how?!) No, I’m more of the opinion that the responsibility of keeping the plane aloft is mine alone, and rests solely upon whether or not I was nice that day, and so I spend the bulk of my day prior to takeoff helping the elderly, reading to the blind, and kissing babies.

Okay, FINE.

I really don't believe that, exactly, and don't do most of that stuff, but I do kiss my own baby! And I’m generally nice! Doesn’t that count for something?

Well, apparently it does, because my plane made it to Chicago for BlogHer.

There were so many fantastic things about this past weekend, so I’ll just kick it off with my roommate.

As Emily herself has pointed out, going into a roommate situation while never having met or even spoken to the person before has the potential to be a complete and unmitigated catastrophe.

I needn’t have worried.

This girl is too funny for words, adorable, and has some kickin’ dance moves. We had the best time, and had far too many “OMG, me too!” moments to count. She shares my love of trivia, my hatred of talking on the phone, and my firm belief that Lindsay Lohan really is just a little mixed up right now, and can, nay, will rise again. Plus, she has the prettiest handwriting ever. Seriously. Many thanks again to all of you who thought to set us up as roommates, and played Yenta* the Matchmaker to our…uh, whoever the couple is in Fiddler on the Roof. Which, in case you can’t tell, I’ve never seen. (I know! And I’m Jewish! This must be some sort of blasphemy!)

Another highlight of the weekend was Whoorl taking Emily, myself, and the hilarious Gorillabuns to this Piece. I enjoy beer, but I’d never before seen the benefit of these:

After visiting Piece, I did. Because sweet merciful crap, best beer EVER. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the brew that I tried, but I do recall seeing a beer on the menu entitled “Baron von Awesome.” I promptly dubbed myself Baroness von Awesome, and had visions of my tiny beer children singing “The Lonely Goatherd” while their free-spirit governess sewed them clothing from the drapes. All while rationalizing the purchase of a beer helmet.

I’m a multi-tasker, you see.

Overall, while I had some issues with the conference itself (which Emily did a fantastic job of articulating), it was so much fun finally getting to meet the amaaaaazing women (Sorry Darren, but I had to!) who I’d heretofore only read. I was, quite frankly, quaking in my ballet flats about the whole thing, but the overall experience was great, and not at all like the high school cafeteria horror I had envisioned. And Lizarita totally made my day (she knows why). Moreover, I discovered some new peeps. (Moose! Schnozz! Where have you been all my life?! AND WHY DO ALL OF YOU LADIES LIVE SO FAR AWAY?!)

I still must discuss my trip back to NY, which encompasses my mad Jack Bauer-esque counter-terrorism skillz, an unscheduled landing, and my sneaking suspicion that my lotion was sending me a bad sign about the flight. No, really. For now, I’m off to catch up with all of you, and then ponder why, exactly, I felt it necessary to take home the blue and yellow Butterball potholder from my bag o’ free conference crap.

In the meantime, here are my Flickr pictures from the conference.

______________

Update: As further proof that I've never seen Fiddler on the Roof, I truly thought that the martchmaker character's name was Yentl, not Yenta. Oops.

Me, in 10 Seconds or Less

My blogme2007 introduction (more info here):

I’m Metalia, a left-handed former gymnast who has no rhythm whatsoever. Seriously, it’s just sad. I love lip gloss, and all manner of pretty, shiny beauty products. I’m married to the amazing and organized J, and we have a 1-year old boy. We live in New York, and I’m accosted by deranged hobos on a near-daily basis while making my way into Manhattan. While not fun for me, I can acknowledge that it makes for good blog fodder.

My love of cheese, avocados, and assorted salty snacks is legendary, as is my hatred of Charles Dickens. I love 80’s-era Crap Rock (Scorpions, anyone?), in addition to more current fare. I’ve been known to compose odes to the movie Roadhouse. I love Saturday Night Live, particularly this, this, and this. (Oh, and although it's not on SNL, have you seen this? Love that, too.) I could watch the Food Network and/or Tyra Banks shrieking about the elusive quality of "fierceness" all day and night. As you might suspect, I have a bit of a pop culture fixation.

I’m a weirdly good speller, and thus went to the National Spelling Bee when I was younger, accompanied by MY GINORMOUS UNIBROW. Sexay! I feel like the worst of days can be exponentially improved by spotting either: a) a man with a hardcore handlebar mustache, or b) a spur-of-the-moment end zone dance. Simple pleasures, man. I’m all about them.

Jujubes and Diamonds

One of my very worst qualities is my tendency to get easily distracted when dealing with annoying tasks. The clothes-covered chair in my bedroom, for instance, has been abandoned by me so many times that it’s bordering on just plain rude. We’re like an on-again, off-again couple from an 80’s romantic comedy. I’ll occasionally realize the error of my ways, and decide that TODAY IS THE DAY that my sweaters from early December will finally get folded up and put away for the summer. The day that I’m willing to give this thing one more shot. I let the chair know this, of course, by doing this:

The chair becomes overjoyed that I’m finally putting time into our relationship, and “I’m a Believer” begins to play as we frolic, taking all manner of goofy pictures together in the photo booth that magically appears in my bedroom. Needless to say, the chair and I also share one milkshake with two straws, and go on a roller coaster together, our respective arms waving high in the air. All is right with the world! But then, things quickly turn, and go back to the way they were. I get distracted, and the clothes pile up once again. Who’s to say why these things happen? Perhaps I discovered a new blog, or decided that I HAD to make Caramel Fudge Squares right now (yum!)…

OR.

Perhaps Dirty Dancing was on.

People, I love this movie.

I feel like it's always on, but I never catch it. The other night, I did.

Needless to say, my plans to draw up my packing list for Chicago and finish clearing off the goddamn chair were quickly abandoned. I was transfixed. Naturally, I need to discuss it here, if for no other reason than my ongoing quest to review both cheesy dance movies, and cheesy Patrick Swayze movies. (And here they are, together!) The question was how to do it. Obviously, there’s That One Scene that everyone waits for, but I’m not going to talk about it, because it’s been done to death. And so, I give you this:

My Top Five Moments in Dirty Dancing That Do Not Involve the Corner, Baby, and Her Inappropriate Placement Therein:

The Hair Brushing

When Johnny (Castle! His last name is Castle! I did NOT remember that! Who knew?!) is fired from Kellerman's, and Baby is depressed, her sister Lisa tries to comfort her by telling her that she will (wait for it)...brush her hair. Lisa, Baby already has frizzy curls. Is this helping or hurting?

The Maraca Shaking

When Penny says “Oh, come on ladies. God wouldn’t have given you maracas if he didn’t want you to shake ’em.” I find this particularly hilarious because, if memory serves, she says this to a large group of elderly women.

The Jujubes

This movie contains what is perhaps one of the most nonsensical lines ever uttered in the history of cinema, namely, “Last month I'm eating Jujubes to keep alive, and this month women are stuffing diamonds in my pocket.” Swayze gets bonus points for being able to keep a straight face and actually convey sincerity while saying it. Each and every time I watch this scene, I imagine the writers’ room coming up with this line by essentially playing Mad Libs:

Head Writer: Okay fellas, work with me here: ‘Last month I’m eating BLANK to stay alive, and this month women are stuffing BLANK in my pocket.’ Fill in those two blanks, guys! Hit me!

Writer 1: He’s eating…pizza crusts to stay alive, and the women are stuffing…panties in his pocket!

HW: No! Too obvious! Outside the box, you lazy jackasses!

Writer 2: Chestnuts and three-toed sloths!

HW: Too far outside the box. Keep it coming!

Writer 3: This line sucks donkey balls.

HW: You are SO fired, Murray. Pack up your knives and go. Writer 4! Whaddya got?

Writer 4: [Eating Jujubes, only partially paying attention.] Um, Jujubes and…diamonds?

HW: I…love it. Run with it, baby!

Seriously. Jujubes and diamonds?

The Smelling

When Johnny (Castle! I’m still not over that! HIS NAME IS CASTLE.) is explaining to Baby why he ends up sleeping with the rich, bored housewives who frequent the hotel, one of his explanations is that they “smell so good.” Um…okay.

The Kellerman’s Song

I must have seen this movie at least ten times, but I never really listened to the words of the Kellerman’s song, beyond “Join hands and hearts and voices, voices hearts and hands.” This time, however, when I got sucked in sat down to watch it, Toopweets had juuuust fallen asleep, and for fear of waking him, we watched the whole thing with the captions on. This song at the end? Just…wow. Did anyone else know that these were the (awful, awful) lyrics?

Daytime, nighttime, any hour whether rain or shine, Games and lectures, talks and music happily combine. Not a stress or strain is found here, for it must be said, Here at Kellerman's you’re gladdened, stomach, heart and head.

Sweet fancy Moses. I’m thinking that the aforementioned Writer 4 had a hand in this.

Extra Special Bonus: The YouTube

Yes, I know that YouTube has absolutely nothing to do with Dirty Dancing, but in doing my research to ensure that I was getting the quotes correct, I stumbled across this. Oh, YouTube. I love you so!

Surprise, Surprise...

...I need your opinion on something. Shocking, I know.

But first!

Time for some self-pimping.

Let me just grab my pimp hat…

..Ah, there we go!

*Donning pimp hat*

As I’d mentioned earlier (in a fit of panic), Y asked me to write a guest post on her blog; I’m not going to come right out and say that you should go check it out, but I will say this: If there was ever a time when you wondered to yourself, “Hey...how would Metalia handle being attacked by a lunatic pigeon?,” then this post will answer that question. With illustrations and photographs, to boot!

Now where’s my money, bitchezzzzz?!111!!1

Whoa! The pimp hat is too powerful!

*Removing pimp hat*

Anyway.

So, here's where I need your advice: I, um…haven’t sent out thank you cards for Toopweets’ first birthday yet. You know, the one that took place over a month ago?

I know.

I KNOW!

The guilt is quite literally keeping me up at night. And the reason I haven’t done it is because I’m trying to decide whether I need to spend my days and nights cranking out heartfelt, handwritten notes on stationery, as I did for our wedding, and his birth…

OR!

...If I can simply whip up one of these bad boys, which will include a picture of him surrounded by his pile of gifts, and a preprinted message.

I’d obviously write something more substantial than “Thanks, Yo!” But the matter at hand is whether it's even okay to do this when sending out thank you cards for a one-year-old’s birthday party, or if it's Simply Not Done, and I might as well sign up for this right now. Please advise. :)

As for the question I’d asked you in my last post (i.e., whether or not you’d care to hear a recommendation for a scented body cream), your response was a resounding YES.

And so, without further ado:

I very highly recommend Origins Spring Fever Body Souffle.

First of all, it’s a great cream…lotion. (Crotion?) I don’t know what to call it; it’s thicker than a lotion, but not as heavy as a cream. Hmm. Why don’t I just stick with their word, soufflé?

My point, before I got sidetracked, is that it’s fantastic at taking care of dry skin, and it absorbs beautifully, too. You know, unlike the baby oil I used to slather all over my legs during my later teenage years because Cosmo said that is was sexy, and that It Would Drive Him Wild With Desire!!! when in fact I just looked like I was on my way to an oil wrestling competition, and a veritable small army of insects met their doom on my glistening, sticky oiled legs each time I set foot outside. Curse you, Cosmo!

Uh…let’s move on to the fragrance, shall we?

Origins describes it as a combination of “artemisia, apple, marigold, linden blossom, tangy mandarin, lush cypress, and watermelon.”

Now, I have no earthly clue what artemisia is, nor do I know what cypress and linden smell like. But I do know this: This stuff smells fabulous. Despite the many fruits listed in the description, it’s not overly fruity or cloying at all; in fact, it has a very fresh, clean fragrance. It’s perfect for summer, when you don’t want to wear anything heavy, or for people (like my friend S) who don’t wear perfume. (…But who I convinced to try this, whereupon she fell promptly in love with it.)

In other news, today I had two iced coffees, one Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino (mmm!) and the most darling little bottle of Diet Coke. (Hi, Angella!) I don't even like Diet Coke but it was a tiny little bottle! I was powerless against the cuteness! As you may have surmised, the unfortunate side effect of my unprecedented caffeine overload is that I am WIRED. I hate to think of what could happen:



Uh oh. Come to think of it, I am getting a little excited. Yeesh. I'd better watch myself.

Segues, Segues Everywhere

Ahhh, home at last.

This past week, our nanny was on vacation, and our car was in the shop (remember? The douchebag?). And so, lacking in the departments of both childcare and transportation, we headed back to New Jersey. Again. (Cue Welcome Back Kotter Music.)

I’m not complaining AT ALL, mind you; it just seems as if we end up there a lot. We are no match for the hypnotic lure of the Garden State. We stayed at my parents’ house, where, as it turns out, childcare and transportation are both in abundance.

A direct consequence of this turn of events was that after we put Toopweets to bed each night, my parents would say things like, “Oh, why don’t you kids go out to a movie or something?” And we’d hem and haw for exactly three seconds, whereupon J would casually make his move towards the door, and there would be a me-shaped hole in the wall as we headed out together into the night. Movies in theaters! Met games! Dinners at restaurants! We’d forgotten such things even existed, and were filled with childlike wonder. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

Speaking of all things childlike, my brothers both came home to visit my parents for the weekend. J, my younger brother and I were sitting around Saturday afternoon and talking, when my brother stood up from the enormous fluffy chair in which he’d been seated.

Bro: ..and so that’s why that happened. Callin’ fives! [Starts to walk out of the den.]

Me: Dude, that’s disgusting.

B: What?

M: You called “fives;” I’m assuming that’s an extreme version of saying you have to go number two? Like, you’re experiencing an urgent biological need of a crap-related nature?

B: EW. What’s wrong with you? Also, how old do you think I am that I’d feel the need to announce that?

J: Metalia, he’s making a good point.

M: Whatever. What the hell is calling fives?

B: [Shocked] You don’t know?

M: No.

B: [To J] You?

J: No.

B: Oh my God. If you say it when you leave a room, it reserves your seat for five minutes. I can’t believe you don’t know that.

J and I then looked at each other, completely dumbfounded by this idiocy. (I then promptly stole the chair.)

My youngest brother entered the room, and we pounced, quizzing him on the definition of calling fives, and, upon hearing his response (which was identical to my other brother’s), we felt REALLY, REALLY OLD.

People.

What the hell?

Have you ever heard of this before? Or are we, in fact, just really, really old?

Speaking of feeling really old...um, WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BABY? I was just looking at these pictures from the weekend and realized that he's a toddler. Oh, my God.

Oh! Also: If I said I had a recommendation for a (I hate this phrase, but I'm using it anyway because it's accurate) sinfully rich body cream, BUT the cream had a fragrance, would you still be interested? I'm always hesitant to recommend stuff that has a fragrance; it's so subjective.

Finally, I'll be guest posting over at Y's blog VERY SOON (at some point tomorrow, perhaps?); thanks again for your ideas!

Help Meeee

I must say, this has been a banner week for me, blog-wise. Monday began with my discovery that Stefanie had bestowed upon me this award: I was well aware of my girl blogger status, but it was not until I received this award that I learned of my rockin’ nature. As the proud recipient of this award, I will now feel compelled to start frequently throwing devil horns and wearing my checkerboard Vans on a more regular basis. Sweet.

Furthermore, when someone writes something about me that is as kind, flattering, and touching as Stefanie’s words here, the logo could very well be a picture of a moose taking a dump on someone’s head, and I’d still display it proudly. Thank you so much, Stefanie! (Am I supposed to nominate other people now? Guide me, O wise one.)

As if that wasn’t enough excitement for one week, I received an email from Y yesterday. Yes, that Y, one of my dearest, funniest internet friends, and a bona fide blogebrity. (I don’t use that term lightly; girlfriend was interviewed by the Wall Street Journal, is what I’m saying.) Imagine my shock and amazement, therefore, when she asked me if I would write a guest post on her blog.

OMG.

*hyperventilates into paper bag*

Can you say honored and flattered beyond belief?

Only one wee, itty bitty problem.

I have NO IDEA what to write about. And I’ve literally been mulling this over for a solid day. I mean, if left to my own devices, my post will probably read like this:

“I love Yvonne she is so pretty and funny and buy this snack/beauty product/book and here are some pictures OMG there was this crazy hobo on the subway and here is something stupid that I said or did or thought at one time or another.”

And then Y will run away, shrieking regretfully, as will all of her gazillion readers.

Do you see why I NEED YOUR HELP? I’m enlisting all of you here. (Except you, Y! I’ve totally got things under control, and you should not be at all alarmed by my unmitigated ineptitude at guest-blogging!)

So.

People.

I ask you, nay, beseech you…can you suggest any ideas for a topic that you’d like to see me cover in this guest post? This is no time to be shy. It IS, however, time to help me.

Now, I have much to say here about your hilarious comments on the last post, the new Die Hard movie, Target shopping bags, an extremely dirty-sounding item that I just saw on a restaurant menu and yet another lip gloss (if you can believe it), but I’m far too nervous to discuss any of these things right now. Once you help me to figure out what I’ll be writing about, I’ll presumably calm down a bit. PRESUMABLY.

Many thanks in advance. :)

The Blog Equivalent of Forcing Someone to Look at Your Vacation Pictures

Happy Fourth of July!

The day began with our attending a parade. Why? Because we're cool. That's why.

I know what you’re thinking…totally boring, right?

WRONG.

Yes, yes, the July Fourth parade did have the usual assortment of flag-wielding policemen, school bands, as well as boy and girl scouts, but it also had…these guys!

The parade also had its fair share of firetrucks. Toopweets, a major fan of big, shiny vehicles, was in heaven.

We then proceeded to a street fair which had…A TRAIN.

I will channel my son’s thoughts upon seeing this lovely sight: “A train! A train! A TRAIN THAT YOU CAN RIDE ON, OMG. I’m drooling from the excitement. And the goddamn teething. Someone get me a pretzel, strap me in this thing, and let’s crank this [redacted] UP!”

Needless to say, trains are another favorite of his.

We rode it twice.

Cue obligatory shots of me with the boy (and my new bangs)…

…as we made our way out of the fair, we spotted someone. Someone very special to Toopweets, who, along with firetrucks and trains, made the trifecta of his very favorite things complete:

Can you not see the glee on this child’s face? In the interest of full disclosure, I suspected that Elmo had found this quiet, secluded park bench away from the throngs of children in order to take a break, kick up his fur booties and have a smoke, but I DID NOT CARE. Elmo is a golden god in our home, and we were getting a picture.

(Good Lord! What’s become of me?!)

A good time was had by all, and the best part…

He went to bed an hour early.

On a wholly unrelated note, I must discuss the following two things:

1. I recently spied this snack and thought to myself, “This is perhaps the vilest combination of flavors in the history of anything ever. I must try it.” Um, it’s…not bad. In fact, it's sort of good.I know I’ve said that I’ll try (and like) most anything, but this is a stretch even for me.

2. Now to take the attention off of me and my questionable palate, can we talk about this show? (And how I’ll totally be watching it?) My mind, it is blown.

UPDATED! How to Be a Total Jerk in 4 Easy Steps, and Other Useful Advice

Step 1: Attempt to park your car.

Step 2: Bash the ever-loving shit out of the Metalia family’s shiny new car in the process, such that the bumper is now concave. Look around to make sure that they are nowhere nearby.

Step 3: (And this is important…) Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES are you to leave a note with any contact information.

Step 4: Flee like the ass that you are.

Yay! Extensive auto body damage! Fun times for all!

Our car is paying a visit to Eddie the mechanic in the morning, which should be a joyous and not-at-all-expensive event. His estimate on the damage will determine whether my haircut tomorrow afternoon (more on that in a minute) will be carried out by my usual stylist…or the 497-year-old eyepatch-wearing barber in the subway station who cuts hair for $10. Actually, I’m not even sure that he’s a real barber. He might just be a crazy, scissors-wielding old man who hangs out in the subway. I just don’t know. The point is…people are sometimes jerks, and this is what it leads to: Potential car repair-induced poverty resulting in major hair trauma at the hands of a weird old guy who may or may not be an actual $10 barber. And it breaks my hea-a-a-a-a-a-aart (Regina Spektor style).

Speaking of which…(segue alert!), we saw The Break Up this weekend. Um…what the hell? Did anyone else see this? Honest to God, the movie was bipolar. I felt as if the director couldn’t decide if the movie should be a comedy or a drama, and just shrugged and made a comedy/drama…a comma, if you will. It was mildly redeemed by Jennifer Aniston’s movie brother, as well as her wardrobe (which I covet in this movie and in her real life, as well).

On to cheerier things:

I am totally getting bangs again, thanks to your input. Seriously, you guys are the best.

And!

Lately, people cannot stop complimenting me on my glowing skin.

Well, that’s not exactly true.

What I mean to say is that I ran into someone I tangentially know, and she said I looked all glowy, while eyeing my midsection suspiciously.

And then I punched her in the neck.

(I kid! I kid!)

In addition to her, however, exactly two people that I don’t want to punch in the neck had recently asked me what makeup I’ve been using to achieve said glow. And, as I told them, it's not makeup; my secret is this stuff: Boots No. 7 Radiant Glow Lotion.

On a Target jaunt a while back, I picked this stuff up. I’m forever on the hunt for, what is to me, the Holy Grail of face lotions: One that will lightly moisturize, absorb quickly, and make me look glowy, but not through the use of glittery sparkles. This has been surprisingly difficult to find. (I’M LOOKING AT YOU, NEUTROGENA ILLUMINATING WHIPPED MOISTURIZER! I’M NOT GOING TO A RAVE, FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESE! IT'S 2007! LOSE THE GLITTER!)

This Radiant Glow Lotion, however, is amazing; it’s light, has a very unobtrusive scent, and has a verrrry subtle and NON-SPARKLY radiance. I love it, and highly recommend it.*

(Although...my Google searching appears to indicate that it's hard to find lately, so I'm really just teasing you. Oops. Well, it should be coming back to Target soon, if it's not already there.)

UPDATE: J took the car to the mechanic this morning to assess the damage done by Douchey McJerkface. (And as I had mentioned, the extent of the damage would have a direct impact on how much I could spend on my haircut.) This is a true re-enactment of our conversation:

J: Hey, sweetie.
Me: Hi! What's the deal?
J: It's bad.
M: Bad how?
J: It's going to cost a lot.
M: Just tell me.
J: You're going to have to get a haircut with a Flowbee.
M: A Flowbee?!
J: A Flowbee.
M: Like crazy Tom Cruise?
J: Yup. Sorry, kiddo.
M: Noooooooo!

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*The only downside is that it has no SPF, so I usually slather on a bit of Aveeno face lotion (which does) first. Eh. To me, it's a small price to pay for the pretty, pretty glow.