Your Burning Questions

Okay, so I truly had no idea how many of you would have questions about the Jewish custom of refraining from preparing for a baby’s arrival. I guess it is weird, now that I think about it. And I will answer your burning question in just a moment. But first! You had some other questions on my last post. Namely, “Show us that ugly, floral, bow-collared shirt you wore!” and “You think you can talk about a new, free Louis Vuitton bag and not include a picture? WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU BAGTEASE YOU?”

I am, of course, paraphrasing here.

So without further ado, I bring you a close-up of…floral bowshirt! I even tied the collar bow all dainty-like!

Isn’t it lovely? Doesn’t it resemble one of the Golden Girls’ muumuus and/or a sofa slipcover circa 1974? For full effect, I’d hum a few bars of “Thank You for Being a Friend” while you look at it. I really have no excuse, except that I think my fashion sense is skewed by pregnancy.

Onto much prettier things, may I introduce you to my new bag? I’ve been on the lookout for a BAB (big-ass bag) for quite a while now…you know, a carryall into which I can throw everything. I may or may not have decided I “needed” such a bag while recently watching a pasta commercial wherein a classy Italian lady walked to the market with a huge (yet classy!) bag, into which she artfully placed fresh tomatoes and long loaves of crusty bread, all to the strains of loud (but classy!) opera music. I saw that, and was all, “Hey! A bag that can take me from work to the Italian marketplace! It will make me classy! I must get one!” Granted, I live nowhere near any such marketplace, nor have I ever purchased one of those huge loaves of bread in my life, but what if I found myself in just such a situation sans gigantic bag? What if? How awkward would THAT be? For me and the bread loaves?

Enter The Bag of Awesome.

Oh, and not only is it the huge-ass tote I’ve been wanting, but through the wizardry of the leather drawstrings on the side, it can also become…

A REGULAR-SIZED BAG!

Truly, it is more than meets the eye…and did I mention it was FREE? Oh, I did?

Ahem.

So now, to answer your other burning question: Why do Jewish people have the custom of refraining from preparing for the arrival of a baby?

Let me first clarify that we do, um, PREPARE, in the sense of like, taking prenatal vitamins, researching the whole childbirth thing, and you know, acknowledging the pregnancy. We do select/buy cribs, strollers, clothes, etc. but what I meant by “prepare” was that we don’t put together the crib, wash the clothes, or generally bring any baby stuff into the house. (Obviously, since I already have a kid, there is already a crib and stroller in my house, but we don’t bring stuff home for the new baby.)

Let me also say that we Jews are a superstitious people, and the reason for this custom (and it is a custom, not a law) is-- at its most basic level-- a “don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched” type of thing. (My grandma would also say that you don’t want to tempt Satan. No, really. She’d totally say that.) Another explanation I’ve heard is that Judaism requires us to behave modestly, which carries over to all areas of our lives. With respect to pregnancy/babies, this means not flaunting your new baby stuff, lest someone get jealous or upset and wish ill upon you (and your baby).

Whatever the reason, we do follow this custom, and I know it does seem odd, but there are workarounds. Many, many stores (at least in the New York area) are well aware of this belief, and make accommodations, like allowing you to pick out all your stuff, pay for it, and have it stored there. I have my entire layette selected for the baby, and it’s boxed up and waiting for us to call. (Once again, the custom is not to bring things into your house, so more than likely, as my due date gets closer, I’ll have my mom pick up the clothes and ask her to wash them and keep them at her house until the baby comes. Um..thanks, Mom!)

SPEAKING of babies, may I update you on mine? First of all, T is going to be two on Sunday. TWO. When did this happen?? In other baby news, I’m a centimeter dilated (TMI? Sorry.) and according to my doctor, I “could go tomorrow, given [my] history, or you know, in 3 weeks or so.” How helpful!

In any case, today I had what will probably be my last sonogram of this pregnancy, where I learned that the baby is approximately 6 pounds already.

I still have a month to go, people. Pray for me and my special lady area (Emily™).

After performing all the standard measurements and whatnot, the ultrasound technician whipped out her magical 4D transducer, and so we got a real glimpse of our baby's face in profile.

This is suddenly becoming very, very real. I can't wait to meet this kid.

What I've Been Up To

Ugh.

I’m exhausted, people.

I’m due in a month, and I’m panicking just a bit. I’ve spent the past week running around frantically trying to wrap up last-minute work things so I can go out on maternity leave in peace. (And—unlike last time—not find myself on a conference call with an irate consultant two hours after giving birth.) The thing is, although I technically have a month to go, T arrived three weeks early, so in my mind, I’m all, “Ohmahgahhhh! It could be next weeeeeeek!” And then I start hyperventilating and/or eating more Trader Joe’s cheese puffs. This happens more often than I’d like to admit.

My nesting instinct has kicked into high gear as well. Since, however, Jewish custom prohibits me from doing any real prep work for the baby (i.e., washing the clothes, organizing the nursery, etc.) I've instead thrown myself into all manner of inane, time sucking organizational projects around the apartment. Why SHOULDN’T I finally put that jumbled box of pictures from ten years ago into an album? SO WHAT if they’re primarily from the year I spent in Israel, and serve very little purpose other than capturing me in numerous states of drunkenness/fashion missteps/self-tanner overdose? What if someone wants to see them? WHAT IF? And what’s wrong with re-organizing my closet into not only skirt/pants/shirt sections, but subcategories of color? WHO CARES that I can’t fit into any of it right now? It's IMPORTANT, DAMMIT.

As if that’s not enough, my normally cheery attitude has been replaced with that of a monstrous bitch. (A scary, raging monstrous bitch who may or may not have gotten into a slight altercation with a jerk at a salad store yesterday. I inadvertently cut him in the line, and he started yelling at me. Like, YELLING FOR REALS. Whereupon I called him something Not Nice At All.) If I had to pinpoint a moment where my descent into bitchery began, I’d say it started a few days ago, when most of my good clothes were in the laundry, and nothing that remained fit me properly, except for a floral print shirt that ONLY A GOLDEN GIRL COULD LOVE. Seriously, I half expected Rose to come tottering out of my closet regaling me with tales of Saint Olaf. Oh, and did I mention the Large Collar Bow? Because the shirt? It has one. Yesterday wasn’t much better. I’d worn a red wrap dress, and--upon catching a glimpse of myself in a storefront--noted that I resembled NOT the willowy, sexy wrap dress-wearing pregnant lady on the Gap website who’d lured me into purchasing the dress, but rather, a portly version of my childhood idol, Annie. It's a hard-knock life, indeed.

But let’s not dwell on the negative! Let’s focus on the good things happening! Like the whole baby thing! And the fact that I finally did something in preparation for said baby! Namely, J and I exhaustively researched and subsequently picked out a double stroller (many thanks to my in-laws for getting it for us!):

(It is awesome, but GARGANTUAN.)

In other good news, I ultimately wimped out and decided not to report the Worst Cab Driver Ever (a number of people confirmed for me that a disciplinary hearing would be involved; I didn't want to go, nor did I want to put the driver through that) and do you know what happened? My husband returned from work with a Louis Vuitton handbag that his boss had received as a gift, and didn’t want. So I ended up with it. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. I am now a firm believer in karma.

Finally, we are celebrating T’s birthday on Sunday, which I’m really looking forward to, particularly since I’ve decided not to kill myself making the cake this year. His birthday isn’t for another week and a half, but given my womb’s apparent penchant for evicting its inhabitants a few weeks early, we figured it’d be a good idea to party early this year, just in case. We’re also refraining from having a big bash like last year, and instead just having a small family party. I felt guilty at first, but after reflecting upon it, I’m banking on the fact that as long as there’s cake and at least one train-related object, he will not care in the least.

Happy Memorial Day weekend to you all!

Some Poetry to Class Things Up a Bit Around Here

It seems that all I can write about lately is trivial things. Why is that? Is it possible that I'm starting to have a mild freakout about the fact that I'm due in a little over a month and am trying to distract myself? (Especially because--unlike the first time around--I really, really haven't done all that much in the way of preparation?) MAYBE.

Is it because I am getting bigger by the day....

...and have no energy to do anything more complex than devour obscene amounts of Trader Joe's Cheese Puffs, let alone attempt to write deep and/or cogent blog posts? POSSIBLY.

Whatever the cause, I see no reason to stop the trivialities tonight. And so, in honor of the season finale of America's Next Top Model, I bring you the following poem about my sad, sad love of the show. (If it seems familiar, it's because it was part of my guest post on Casey's blog a while back. See above, re: NO ENERGY TO THINK.)

The Models (In the style of “The Raven”)

Once upon a weeknight dreary,
While I pondered week and weary
After concluding that all of Wednesday night TV was a bore…
Suddenly there came a sound, of 20 girls jumping around,
Each one looking more and more like a tarted-up old whore.

“’Tis some commercial!” I muttered, “for some tarted-up old whores-
“Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was way back in September,
Before reruns had concluded and TV was good again.
Eagerly I hoped for my shows, because the reruns really did blow.
Wished for my shows to return, and end this dullness evermore.

Back I turned to watch the antics, of the girls, more and more frantic.
As they jumped around while crying, pictures in their hands.
Deep into the distance, peering, long they stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams, and hoisting up their cans.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a woman, with a weave in her hair,
Appeared before the girls and softly whispered “hush” to them.
Wearing a tunic with golden glitter, “Ty” selected her picks of the litter,
Thirteen girls to appear on a little show called ANTM.
Quoth the Tyra, “Keep it fierce.”

The year was ’03, there was nothing else on; I was quite hooked in short order.
Bald caps, swimsuits, catfights, and the occasional eating disorder.
I always laughed aloud at Tyra’s sanctimonious speeches.
As if she alone could stop the wrath of 13 rampaging bitches.
Quoth the Tyra, “Keep it fierce.”

Five years of the show have now passed by, and with them, memories,
Some good, some bad, some dumb (like the thing with the vandalized brownies).
But still I watch this ridiculous show; I can’t lie, there have been some tears.
‘Cuz though it’s dumb and laughably fake, you can’t deny that the girls? WERE FIERCE.

(FYI, my money's on Anya to win.)

Glossing Over It

I was IM’ing with the lovely Susan Wagner earlier today, discussing a multitude of beauty products. As we fully acknowledged our mutual product addictions, she wondered aloud (well, on IM, anyway) what rehab for such addiction would be like, and quickly concluded that it would involve you giving up all of your good stuff, whereupon you would be handed a Chapstick and some Dove soap. THAT’S IT.

*shudder*

As we speculated about the horrors of product addiction rehab, I began to think about the circumstances that would get you there. And that’s when I remembered one of my secret favorite train-wreck shows, Intervention. My god, can you imagine an episode about lip gloss addiction? I can, and it would be AWESOME. So much better and less depressing than the ones about compulsive shopping...or, you know, crystal meth. Here’s how my segment would go:

"I started out kinda young, I guess...dabbling in Chapstick when I was 8, moving on to Wet n' Wild by 10...by 14, I was ponying up the big bucks for Revlon Colorstay. Rich Raisin was my preference...an older cousin introduced me to it. If only I’d known then the choice I was making...It’s been years, man. And I can’t stop. Sure, I’ll slum it at Target and Rite-Aid, but when I need a real fix, what they have to offer just won’t cut it anymore.”

[Cut to me entering Neiman Marcus. Turning to camera.]

“Yep, here I am. Again.” *weeps*

[Cut to the Nars counter. The makeup assistant’s face is blurred out as she counts out my cash and hands me a tube of gloss.]

The intervention would take place in Sephora, after I’d received a (fake) 50% off coupon for the store; all my friends and loved ones would be waiting for me there, prepared to address my little problem and forcibly take away my makeup bag. I'd run crying to the bathroom, presumably to reflect upon the error of my ways and contemplate lip gloss addiction rehab, but the cameras would catch me frantically applying the teeny lipgloss I had attached to my keychain...JUST IN CASE.

Annnnnd.....scene.

Now, admittedly, I don’t buy a new gloss every week. (And I am the total opposite of a gloss snob; I’ll buy anything that looks good, regardless of brand.) But I have amassed quite a collection. See this? This does not represent all of my glosses; it came from ONE BAG:

And so I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be fun (for me, anyway) to do a little lip gloss timeline? Taking you from my youthful mistakes to my present-day favorites? (Answer: Yes. Yes, IT WILL BE FUN, DAMMIT.)

Age 8-14: Cherry Chapstick –I was not allowed to wear any makeup WHATSOEVER until I was 14. The only concession my mom made to this hard-and-fast rule was Chapstick…which, by the way, is still in my beauty arsenal. I resented this rule at the time, but considering that 11-year-olds are getting highlights, and 10-year-olds are getting bikini waxes, in retrospect, perhaps it was good that I got time to be a kid.

Age 14-15: Revlon Colorstay Raisin Lipstick –The next few years were not kind to me. I kicked things off with this long-wearing lipcolor, which hit the lipstick trifecta of being: (a) matte; (b) drying and flaky; (c) A REVOLTING SHADE OF DARK ORANGE. Did I mention that I wore scented body glitter simultaneously with this lipstick? Because I did.

Age 16: "Adult" Film Star Lipstick – I moved on, but didn’t wise up, as my next makeup decision was to rock the ever-classy “pale, pale lipstick, dark, dark lipliner” look favored by women with names like "Candy Rainns" and "Destiny Heavenn". Needless to say, I thought I looked foxy as hell. The sad thing is, I'd tried this look a few years before...

...and then did it AGAIN. Because clearly, I don't learn from my mistakes.

Age 16-18: Clinique Tenderheart Gloss – Heather B. and I were just talking about our respective Clinique Stages, and how every girl goes through one. Mine involved Tenderheart. My mom had received it in one of those “gift with purchase” bags from Clinique, and she gave it to me. It was THE FIRST LIP GLOSS I EVER OWNED. The shine! The sheer color! The texture! I was immediately obsessed, and pretty much abandoned lipstick from that point on. Thank God. This stage also involved their Almost Lipstick in Black Honey. I also topped everything with either MAC Lipglass in Clear, or Urban Decay XXX Shine Lip Gloss in Love Junkie.

The crazy shine imparted by both of these glosses, however, resulted in the unfortunate side effect of them being STICKY BEYOND ALL REASON, and so it was that I perennially walked around with locks of my hair glued to my lips…and then like, having to physically PRY it off, only to be left with clumpy strands of gloss-coated hair that nothing but a good washing would get rid of. Neat!

College years/Early 20’s: Drugstore Diva –Living on my own for the first time, I didn’t have tons of cash to blow on makeup. I needed to save it for necessities like alcohol and cheese puffs. And so, I did most of my makeup shopping at the Duane Reade drugstore around the corner from my apartment. Neutrogena MoistureShine Gloss in Dreamy figured prominently in my routine, as did Almay Ideal Lip Gloss in what I believe was a wine color. I also still wore the supersticky Urban Decay gloss. Because I was an idiot.

Present Day: My top five favorite glosses actually all appear in the picture above. Here they are--in no particular order--with my comments:

Alba TerraGloss in Garnet- Don't be put off by the hot pink gloss that appears in the link! It's actually much tamer than that, more of a neutral/reddish color. I saw this separately on Whiskeymarie and Kerflop, and after asking them both about the beautiful lipgloss they were each wearing (and getting the same answer), I ran out to get it. It's gorgeous, sheer, and tastes vaguely like vanilla frosting. Mmm.

Kiehl's Lip Gloss in Goldenberry- A recommendation from Whoorl, I wear this or the Alba gloss every day. It's a perfect sheer pinky peachy, whatever-y color. This one tastes like mango. Mmm. (Are you sensing a theme here?)

Chanel Glossimer in Sirop - Once again, I urge you not to be put off by the frightening coral shade this gloss appears to be in pictures (um, and in person). Yes, I know it looks like it would go perfectly with a floral pantsuit, orthopedic sandals, and an Early Bird dinner, but I'm telling you, this is one of the most gorgeous, subtle shades I've ever come across. And by "come across" I of course mean "stopped a woman in the street for, in order to ask her what lip gloss she was wearing." (True story.)

Nars Lip Gloss in Foul Play- My search for the perfect nude lip gloss has taken me far and wide, and I can say with great certainty that THIS IS IT.

Nars Lip GLoss in Rose Birman - The good people at Sephora describe this shade as a "sheer raspberry cream." which I guess is pretty accurate. This is my go-to shade for any event that requires me to style my hair, put on heels, and generally look the part of a grown-up.

You know, I'm sure, what I'm going to ask you now, right? What are your faves?

Get to it! (Pretty please.)

(PS: Happy Mother's Day, fellow mamas!)

Blogging Goddesses+Ethical Dilemma=My Tuesday Night

I'd been feeling a tad bummed lately about not being able to go to BlogHer this year. I mean, the prospect of having a new bebe mitigates that (like, A LOT), but even so, I had such a great time there last year, and would love to see/meet so many of the people who are planning to go this year. Plus, I've been so spoiled the past few months, getting to hang out with Moose and Holly in San Francisco... Ali in NYC... as well as these lovely ladies... ...And y'know, pretty much seeing Heather B. more often lately than I see most family members. (I'm SORRY, Grandma! I'll call more!)

Yes, I was seriously going through Blogging Goddess Withdrawal (look it up on WebMD), so just imagine my glee when my internet soul sister informed me that she would be making a quick trip to NYC...and then Heather told me she'd be coming to town too, and pulled together a group of Blogging Goddesses the likes of which NEARLY MADE MY HEAD EXPLODE.

I'm not kidding: (l-r: me, Isabel, Deb, Sarah B., Whoorl, Heather B., Rebecca)

I had a fabulous time with them, and have concluded that, rather than dwelling on not going to BlogHer, I should focus my energies on planting my ass firmly here and just sort of mentally willing every blogger I adore to keep visiting NYC. It should work, right?

Of course, since the evening was so unbelievably lovely, something had to come along and muck it up, and that something was a New York City cab driver named Singh.

Singh picked me up after the get-together, and we began our drive to my home. (And although this has nothing to do with anything, recounting this tale reminds of the time I was in college, got into a cab with some friends...and noticed on the driver's ID placard that the driver's name was Mahboob. MAHBOOB, people. I mean, my God, it's funny now (to me, anyway), so just imagine the impact this name had on a group of extremely drunk college students. Unfortunately, this was back in the time before cameraphones, so there was no way to capture an image of THE BEST NAME EVER.)

Where was I? Oh yeah. Singh, that bastard.

So Singh and I were driving along, we hit a bit of traffic, and he veered off the highway. I couldn't really understand what he was saying, but I picked up a few words, specifically "bathroom" "subway" and "leave." I was slightly alarmed, but told myself had left because he was trying to take side roads to escape the highway congestion.

I asked in a nervous, yet jovial! booming! cheerful! voice where we were going, and I again caught him saying something about the subway.

We soon pulled up to an actual subway station, and I asked him what was going on...and pieced together that he had to go to the bathroom, so he was kicking me out of the cab, and telling me to take the subway. A subway that goes nowhere near my home. Did I mention that it was late at night? Because it was.

He asked me to pay, and (despite being the type of person who recently tipped after an awful haircut) I vehemently refused to give him the full fare. He told me that the subway would be quicker than the highway. I explained that I didn't really care about his thoughts on the most efficient means of transportation for me, I just wanted a cab ride directly to my house, and that he shouldn't have picked me up if he couldn't provide this service. He told me, "bathroom! bathroom!" again, and pleaded with me to leave the cab. I did...but not before writing down his name and cab ID. Singh sped off, presumably to go to the damn bathroom, and I waited on the street corner for almost ten minutes until an available cab came along.

Now...here's my ethical dilemma:

I was obviously PISSED about this turn of events, and would like nothing more than to report ol' Singh for some vague violation of the NYC Taxicab Rider Bill of Rights (yes, such a thing exists), and generally being an ass for leaving me against my will on a random street corner late at night. But...cab drivers in NYC aren't generally known for their wealth, and the guy probably had to go to the bathroom quite badly. So...do I report him and risk him getting fined? Or do I just let the offense go and hope some good karma will come my way in return?

What would you do? I'm genuinely curious.