It’s that time again! Ask a Jew is here, and this time, we’re tackling the ever-complicated topic of Sabbath.
Before I get into this, let me give some form of my standard “Ask a Jew” disclaimer: I am not an expert, nor do I claim to be perfect in my observance. This is my understanding and my interpretation. Yours may be different, and we can both learn something from each other and be right, in our own ways. In fact, I’d LOVE to hear if you know of a different explanation, but please, please be courteous.
Far and away, the most common questions revolved around requests for explanations on the “no work” prohibition, and why we’re not allowed to turn lights on and off, etc. So, please allow me to start at the very beginning. Because if The Sound of Music has taught us nothing else, it’s that this is a very good place to start. And also, that when life gives you hideous-ass drapery, you should make some hideous-ass clothing out of it. And that children respond to high-frequency whistles as a form of obedience training. And not to trust your Nazi boyfriend. And-—okay, actually, there are many life lessons to be gleaned from The Sound of Music, it seems.
ANYWAY. Back to the topic at hand:
Why can’t you do “work” on Sabbath/turn lights on or of/drive, etc.?
In order to understand the concept of what Sabbath is, it’s important to first understand where it came from, so to speak. Most people are aware of the biblical statement “and on the seventh day, God ended his work and he rested,” which is the source for taking a day of rest. (And one of the Ten Commandments is “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.”) But what IS “work” and what is “rest,” really, in terms of how we (well, I) observe Sabbath today? (She said, in her evening news anchor voice.)
There were 39 forms of “work” used in the creation of the Mishkan (the portable Temple that the Jews carried with them when they were in the desert for 40 years) eons ago, and so over time, the rabbis utilized that list to build out the activities which we’re prohibited from doing on the Sabbath today. Now, if you look at the list, you’ll see that many of the items there are seemingly inapplicable or easy to follow. For instance, “lighting a fire.” It appears easily avoidable, yes? Like, DON’T ACTIVELY LIGHT A FIRE, and you’re golden, right? Well, these 39 prohibited activities were really more of a jumping-off point, and much like the Elastic Clause in the Constitution, the rabbis determined that they were permitted to interpret and expand them to fit with the times. And so it was that “no lighting fires” became “no using electricity,” which is why we don’t turn lights on/off, use the phone, computer, watch TV, drive, and pretty much everything.
Holy Shit. How do you live? HOW DO YOU LIVE? (Okay, the question was actually “What do you do all day on the Sabbath?”)
No, really! It’s fine! And honestly, kind of fun. I’ve drifted in and out of levels of observance over the years, and I love the way we approach things at this point in our lives. We are FAR from perfect. I mean, if I need a light to give my kid the proper dose of medicine, or something, I’ll, like, use my elbow to turn it on. If I need a paper towel (“THOU SHALT NOT TEAR”), I kind of look the other way and rip that mofo off the roll. I mean, is it “wrong”? Yeah. But it’s the kind of wrong I can live with.
The Sabbath starts about an hour before sundown on Friday, and ends an hour after sundown on Saturday. Don’t worry; we have Jewish calendars that have the times on them. (God knows I ain’t standing outside with a telescope and a damn stopwatch.) We begin the Sabbath with me lighting candles (one for each member of my family), and reciting a brief prayer.
Then, we all sit down to a family meal, which begins with J making Kiddush, or reciting a blessing over wine, and then making another one over the challah. We then all devour the delicious meal that J and I cooked. Since there’s no tv or computers, it’s a mellow, quiet night; after dinner, we play games, read the kids eleventy stories, and then I sit down and do important things I haven’t been able to do all week, like read Us Weekly and drink a lot of wine while J has scotch and reads espionage books featuring characters who have names like Brock Harrington. Or Harrington Brockworth. OR BROCKTON HARRINGWORTH.
On Saturday morning, we attend services at the synagogue. By “attend,” I mean “J goes and brings T with him, while I lounge around, reading OK Magazine, halfheartedly cleaning and getting ready for lunch while the baby naps, and after she wakes up, wandering over to the synagogue wearing one of my many comically large hats or scarves about 10 minutes before services end, stopping to talk to 20 of my friends on the way.” (How spiritual!) I mean, look-—I have two kids. I used to get there relatively early and actually go in and pray, but it’s a lot more difficult now. I sort of mentally send J as my emissary, and hope God’s cool with that.
I have to say, by the way, that we do a lot of socializing on Sabbath, which really makes the day fly by. During the winter, when it starts early (on account of the sun going down around 4:00 pm), we go to friends for dinner/have them come to us most weeks. In the spring and summer, what Sabbath day (Saturday) drags ON AND ON OH MY GOD because of the late sunset, lunch is the big meal to have company/ be invited out for. And yes, that sentence was riddled with grammatical missteps. Anyway, the meal is just What Is Done, and it’s nice, because it’s a great way to actually see your friends, meet new ones, and help the time pass quickly.
We all usually nap, and head over to the park or get together with one of the kids’ friend's houses in the afternoon. Once the sun has set, we perform the “havdalah” (literally, "separation"), a one-minute service where we recite a blessing over a candle, wine, and some spices, ending the Sabbath and hoping for a good week ahead.
Again, it’s a really peaceful time in our week. People sometimes ask me, essentially, if we turn all Jack Torrance on account of the lack of technology, but I have to say, it’s a welcome break. That’s not to say that I don’t lunge for my iPhone the minute Sabbath is over, but until that moment? I really, really enjoy it.
Oh, and while we’re talking about this, I feel the need to mention that human life/health always, ALWAYS trumps the hell out of anything Sabbath-related. So, if you inadvertently chop off your hand, or you’re in labor on a Saturday, you’re getting your ass in a cab/car and going to the hospital. You’re not just sitting around, bleeding to death or having a baby in your living room (unless that was part of your birth plan, of course) because it’s Sabbath.
I’m curious about the restrictions on the use of electricity for some sects - why is it okay to use lights but you can't turn them on?
Good question! The prohibition is really against creating/starting a fire, which, as stated above, has been interpreted to encompass electricity. So, we leave certain lights on throughout our home over the Sabbath, and we turn our oven on before the Sabbath starts (leaving it on a very low setting throughout the Sabbath), and set our air conditioners on timers. We USE electricity, we just don’t…actively do so. If that made any sense at all.
What if a bris happens to fall during a Shabbat? Which takes precedence?
A bris (ritual circumcision and OH MY GOD LET US NOT EVEN GO DOWN THIS ROAD) takes precedence; even though it involves, um, cutting (one of the prohibited activities), it is still performed on the Sabbath.
Do you follow the same rules if you're not at home, like if you're on vacation or something like that?
For the most part, yes. I mean, we were away in the Bahamas a few years ago over a weekend, and we were staying on a very high floor in the hotel. There was no way we were walking up that many stairs, so we just kind of accidentally bumped into the button for the floor we needed. Again, it’s not the RIGHT thing to do, but you asked, so I’m being honest.
Please discuss Kosher kitchens.
A few weeks ago, this article hit the New York Times. And while I actually know the people who were profiled there, and they are lovely, I did sort of roll my eyes at the article ONLY because it subtly made it seem like this—-double sinks, warming drawers, two ovens, etc.-- was What You Have To Do in order to “really” have a kosher kitchen, and that’s simply not the case. My kitchen-- with its one oven, one sink, and dearth of warming drawers--is completely kosher. I look at it like this: You can throw your kid a birthday party with a petting zoo, magician, and fireworks, or you can plunk a cupcake with a candle down in front of him. Either way, it’s still a party. One’s fancier, to be sure, but both WORK. Same thing here; there are basic rules to abide by, but beyond that, it’s all just enhancements; variations on a theme. The bare bones: you must have separate dairy and meat dishes/cutlery. You can’t cook dairy and meat together, or wash those dishes together. You can’t cook on the Sabbath. (...But you can heat up certain things on a pre-existing heat source…it’s a bit involved. If you’re really interested in the intricacies, let me know.) That’s…pretty much it, in terms of out-and-out requirements. REALLY.
Thanks so much for sending me your questions!
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(The contest on my other blog has been extended, and the way to enter is now MUCH easier. Also, DUUUUUDE. My son is pretty much potty trained! WHEEEE!)
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Really, when are school pictures NOT unintentionally hilarious?
As you may have seen from my incessant whining on Twitter, I'm a bit under the weather. I have strep, as it turns out, a precious gift from my son, who was similarly afflicted earlier this week. It's like that old saying goes: "Toddlers will lick your face and breathe all over you, and slobber on your coffee mug with the irate goldfish on it, and then you get strep from them." Well, it's not an OFFICIAL saying, so much as it is something I just said right now. In my mind. But that sort of counts, I think.
I left work early on Monday, and I totally looked like one of the Three Scary People on the Subway to Avoid that they warn tourists about, seeing as I was a shivery, shuddery, feverish mess. (Do not flee, gentle tourists! I am not (1) a homeless panhandler, (2) a young punk raising money for basketball uniforms by selling Skittles, or (3) part of a poverty-stricken but talented breakdancing crew! I may look crazy and disheveled, but I do not want your money! I am simply sick!) I continued on my way home, and unfortunately, for me, the Asshole Shuttle Driver was on duty at the train station when I arrived back in my town. He inadvertently skipped my stop, and refused to let me exit the shuttle before the next "official" stop (four long blocks away), despite his error.
"You asshole,"I told him. "You missed the stop, there is ONE person left on this shuttle besides me, and it's two in the afternoon. I guarangoddamntee you you're not screwing up any schedules. Also, you can clearly see that I'm pretty sick, and I will SUE YOUR SURLY ASS if I get pneumonia on top of whatever fresh hell of an illness I already have. Oh, and I have read the ads on the subway, my friend! There are a great many attorneys listed there who would be GLAD to handle my case! A great many! ASSHOLE." Unfortunately, this all came out as "thanks for the ride!" Because I am nothing if not a nonconfrontational chicken. But concocting elaborate "jerk store called, they're running outta YOU"-type revenge fantasies sure is fun, innit?
I finally, finally made my way home in the HORIZONTALLY POURING RAIN FOR FOUR BLOCKS, MY GOD, YOU ASSHOLE SHUTTLE DRIVER (obviously, I was sans umbrella or hooded coat) wanly greeted the kids, and crawled into bed, where I remained, whimpering until basically the next morning. J was the best, bringing me medicine and taking care of the kids while I...fell asleep for the night at 8:30. This is HIGHLY unlike me. Yesterday, I woke up, still shivering and feverish and now unable to swallow without wincing in pain. I went to the doctor where it was confirmed that I have strep throat. Which, really. I haven't had that since I was, like, 10. All the same, it was good, in a sense, to have an Actual Medically-Fixable Ailment, as opposed to some vague untreatable viral shit. It seems the antibiotics I'm on are working pretty well, despite the admonitions on the bottle that they "may cause nausea, fainting, lightheadedness & interactions with the efficacy of birth control pills."Although if, in the next few days, you see me, and I vomit on you, pass out, and then become spontaneously pregnant, you'll at least know why, and won't run away, screaming for an old priest and a young priest.
Today is the first day since Monday where the thoughts of actually sitting up to reach my tea or push a button on the remote don't seem like hugely ambitious undertakings. I am also finally regaining my appetite. My diet, since Monday, has looked like this:
Monday
Tea
Tea
Tea
Half slice of toast
Tea
Tuesday
Tea
Tea
Snapple ice pops (so very good)
More damn tea
Today, I ventured into the brave new world of chicken soup with matzoh balls and these crack-like things, which I am eating nonstop (Blood Orange Cocktail is my favorite, FYI).
(And of course, still sucking down the tea and ice pops.) I fully expect to rejoin the world of People Who Don't Sit in Their Beds All Day Dozing Off, Shivering, and Watching Tyra-Centric Programming tomorrow.
In other news, T got his school pictures back today. The class picture is an unmitigated mess of FAIL, but really, what can you expect from a bunch of 2 and 3-year-olds? I was pleasantly surprised, however, to find that his individual shot came out beautifully.
And...then I looked underneath it.
Oh my GOD. I'm sorry, but I find the juxtaposition of these two pictures to be HILARIOUS.
"Duuuuude. Someone shot your puppy."
I have a new pet frog! I caught him in a jar and named him Hopsy!"
"You've been selected first in the NFL draft! You're gonna play for a real team!"
"It's the Detroit Lions."
Yeah, I um, can't stop. I just keep pulling out both pictures and cackling like a loon. And thinking of more potential caption scenarios. Obviously. (Feel free to play along.)
I left work early on Monday, and I totally looked like one of the Three Scary People on the Subway to Avoid that they warn tourists about, seeing as I was a shivery, shuddery, feverish mess. (Do not flee, gentle tourists! I am not (1) a homeless panhandler, (2) a young punk raising money for basketball uniforms by selling Skittles, or (3) part of a poverty-stricken but talented breakdancing crew! I may look crazy and disheveled, but I do not want your money! I am simply sick!) I continued on my way home, and unfortunately, for me, the Asshole Shuttle Driver was on duty at the train station when I arrived back in my town. He inadvertently skipped my stop, and refused to let me exit the shuttle before the next "official" stop (four long blocks away), despite his error.
"You asshole,"I told him. "You missed the stop, there is ONE person left on this shuttle besides me, and it's two in the afternoon. I guarangoddamntee you you're not screwing up any schedules. Also, you can clearly see that I'm pretty sick, and I will SUE YOUR SURLY ASS if I get pneumonia on top of whatever fresh hell of an illness I already have. Oh, and I have read the ads on the subway, my friend! There are a great many attorneys listed there who would be GLAD to handle my case! A great many! ASSHOLE." Unfortunately, this all came out as "thanks for the ride!" Because I am nothing if not a nonconfrontational chicken. But concocting elaborate "jerk store called, they're running outta YOU"-type revenge fantasies sure is fun, innit?
I finally, finally made my way home in the HORIZONTALLY POURING RAIN FOR FOUR BLOCKS, MY GOD, YOU ASSHOLE SHUTTLE DRIVER (obviously, I was sans umbrella or hooded coat) wanly greeted the kids, and crawled into bed, where I remained, whimpering until basically the next morning. J was the best, bringing me medicine and taking care of the kids while I...fell asleep for the night at 8:30. This is HIGHLY unlike me. Yesterday, I woke up, still shivering and feverish and now unable to swallow without wincing in pain. I went to the doctor where it was confirmed that I have strep throat. Which, really. I haven't had that since I was, like, 10. All the same, it was good, in a sense, to have an Actual Medically-Fixable Ailment, as opposed to some vague untreatable viral shit. It seems the antibiotics I'm on are working pretty well, despite the admonitions on the bottle that they "may cause nausea, fainting, lightheadedness & interactions with the efficacy of birth control pills."Although if, in the next few days, you see me, and I vomit on you, pass out, and then become spontaneously pregnant, you'll at least know why, and won't run away, screaming for an old priest and a young priest.
Today is the first day since Monday where the thoughts of actually sitting up to reach my tea or push a button on the remote don't seem like hugely ambitious undertakings. I am also finally regaining my appetite. My diet, since Monday, has looked like this:
Monday
Tea
Tea
Tea
Half slice of toast
Tea
Tuesday
Tea
Tea
Snapple ice pops (so very good)
More damn tea
Today, I ventured into the brave new world of chicken soup with matzoh balls and these crack-like things, which I am eating nonstop (Blood Orange Cocktail is my favorite, FYI).
(And of course, still sucking down the tea and ice pops.) I fully expect to rejoin the world of People Who Don't Sit in Their Beds All Day Dozing Off, Shivering, and Watching Tyra-Centric Programming tomorrow.
In other news, T got his school pictures back today. The class picture is an unmitigated mess of FAIL, but really, what can you expect from a bunch of 2 and 3-year-olds? I was pleasantly surprised, however, to find that his individual shot came out beautifully.
And...then I looked underneath it.
Oh my GOD. I'm sorry, but I find the juxtaposition of these two pictures to be HILARIOUS.
"Heyyyyy, little buddy! Guess who's getting a puppy?"
"Duuuuude. Someone shot your puppy."
"Who's ready for ICE CREAM SUNDAAAAAAES?!?!?!"
"The ice cream melted. Plus, we're, uh, out of sprinkles and whipped cream. And caramel topping."
"Tap the keggggg!"
I have a new pet frog! I caught him in a jar and named him Hopsy!"
"I forgot to poke holes in the lid."
"You've been selected first in the NFL draft! You're gonna play for a real team!"
"It's the Detroit Lions."
Yeah, I um, can't stop. I just keep pulling out both pictures and cackling like a loon. And thinking of more potential caption scenarios. Obviously. (Feel free to play along.)
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Posts for Thalon
The following list contains blog posts which reference Shana's baby boy, Thalon, who suddenly passed away on April 12, 2009. Thanks to all of you who sent me your posts and other posts you had seen; if you know of any others, please send them my way, and I will add them to the list.
Rhi in Pink
Whoorl
Miguelina
Metalia
Velocibadgergirl
No Pasa Nada
And So She Blogs
TUWABVB
Maggie Dammit
Mommybytes
Temporarily Me
She Likes Purple
Online Pastry Chef
Youtube video of a balloon release for Thalon
Mama Neena
Amy
Redneck Mommy
Overflowing Brain
Kristabella
Sizzle Says
Gang of Peanuts
Slynnro
One80Three60
Little Miss Mel
Surprised Suburban Wife
Carly
Bellamomma
Not Quite What I Had Planned
Amalah
Jodifur
Red Red Whine
Punchline Walking
Emily
Bessie Viola
Must Be Motherhood
Susan
Rhi in Pink
Whoorl
Miguelina
Metalia
Velocibadgergirl
No Pasa Nada
And So She Blogs
TUWABVB
Maggie Dammit
Mommybytes
Temporarily Me
She Likes Purple
Online Pastry Chef
Youtube video of a balloon release for Thalon
Mama Neena
Amy
Redneck Mommy
Overflowing Brain
Kristabella
Sizzle Says
Gang of Peanuts
Slynnro
One80Three60
Little Miss Mel
Surprised Suburban Wife
Carly
Bellamomma
Not Quite What I Had Planned
Amalah
Jodifur
Red Red Whine
Punchline Walking
Emily
Bessie Viola
Must Be Motherhood
Susan
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday Randomness, and also, a Body Snake.
Thank you all so much for your kind comments about Thalon and Maddie in my last post. (I'm actually amidst compiling a list of all the posts written in Thalon's honor, so if you'd written one and would like it to be included on the list, just email it to me (metaliablog[AT]gmail.com), or leave it in the comments here.)
* * * * * * * * * *
So, Passover is now over, and I, consequently, am sitting at my table, having some Inappropriate Feelings about this here salt bagel. Seriously, eight days without bread will cause you to have elaborate bagel-centric fantasies. You heard it here first. Run away with me, salt bagel! I have missed you so! We could be so happy together! You, me, some avocado and Swiss cheese! Oh, come on now, salt bagel! Come back here! What?! How was that crossing a line? OF COURSE I love you more than avoca--no, YOU'RE untoward, salt bagel!
Yeah, part of that insanity might also be due to the fact that I have a miserable cold, and the Sudafed I've taken to combat it is having its usual speed-like effect on me. Really, I don't know why I never learn. I cannot sit still, my heart is beating like a hummingbird's, and I cannot focus on anything. Except, evidently, imaginary fights with anthropomorphic baked goods. I imagine that I'm really fun to be around right now.
And--I know, I know, I should try a Neti pot instead of Western medicine, but they scare me, okay? I have visions of royally screwing up the process and having the salt water solution flying out my eyeball sockets or something. I'm not that coordinated on the best of days, and Neti pots seem to be quite the undertaking. So, if you have a solution (heh) that doesn't involve meth-like effects on my (apparently hypersensitive) immune system, AND can allay my fear of Eyeball Leakage, then I am all ears. I cannot wait for this cold to pass.
Speaking of things I cannot wait for, REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NEW JERSEY, OH MY GOD. I've only seen that little preview-y snippet (you cannot arrive any sooner, May 12th premiere date!) but man, those bitches may very well be my favorites yet. Perhaps it's the soft spot I have for my home state (holla!), or maybe it's the crazy lady flipping over a restaurant table in a rage, or maybe it's both, but wow, does that show look amazing. And by the way, it is as if they cast this thing by walking blindfolded through my hometown mall, randomly grabbing women by the waistband of their Bebe velour sweatpants, THAT IS HOW NEW JERSEY THESE WOMEN ARE.
Another thing I greatly enjoyed about the Real Housewives preview was the airing of the Body Snake advertisement, the best commercial to hit the scene since the Snuggie. And lest you think I am exaggerating, I implore you to watch it now:
The fumbling guy! The fumbling guy's facial expressions!"Safely reach your bottom!" THE FACT THAT THE THING IS ACTUALLY CALLED A "BODY SNAKE." Seriously. Seriously. That is an actual commercial airing on television. I cannot stop replaying it. Because as always, I am apparently easily amused.
In other news, I am still running the Pull-Ups giveaway contest on my other blog. Your odds of winning now are EXCELLENT.
Finally, it's time for another installment of Ask A Jew! This time, I'll be focusing on answering Sabbath-related questions, though really, as you know, I'll answer pretty much anything. (You know how much I love answering your questions, yes?) So by all means, ask away!
Have a great weekend, everyone.
* * * * * * * * * *
So, Passover is now over, and I, consequently, am sitting at my table, having some Inappropriate Feelings about this here salt bagel. Seriously, eight days without bread will cause you to have elaborate bagel-centric fantasies. You heard it here first. Run away with me, salt bagel! I have missed you so! We could be so happy together! You, me, some avocado and Swiss cheese! Oh, come on now, salt bagel! Come back here! What?! How was that crossing a line? OF COURSE I love you more than avoca--no, YOU'RE untoward, salt bagel!
Yeah, part of that insanity might also be due to the fact that I have a miserable cold, and the Sudafed I've taken to combat it is having its usual speed-like effect on me. Really, I don't know why I never learn. I cannot sit still, my heart is beating like a hummingbird's, and I cannot focus on anything. Except, evidently, imaginary fights with anthropomorphic baked goods. I imagine that I'm really fun to be around right now.
And--I know, I know, I should try a Neti pot instead of Western medicine, but they scare me, okay? I have visions of royally screwing up the process and having the salt water solution flying out my eyeball sockets or something. I'm not that coordinated on the best of days, and Neti pots seem to be quite the undertaking. So, if you have a solution (heh) that doesn't involve meth-like effects on my (apparently hypersensitive) immune system, AND can allay my fear of Eyeball Leakage, then I am all ears. I cannot wait for this cold to pass.
Speaking of things I cannot wait for, REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NEW JERSEY, OH MY GOD. I've only seen that little preview-y snippet (you cannot arrive any sooner, May 12th premiere date!) but man, those bitches may very well be my favorites yet. Perhaps it's the soft spot I have for my home state (holla!), or maybe it's the crazy lady flipping over a restaurant table in a rage, or maybe it's both, but wow, does that show look amazing. And by the way, it is as if they cast this thing by walking blindfolded through my hometown mall, randomly grabbing women by the waistband of their Bebe velour sweatpants, THAT IS HOW NEW JERSEY THESE WOMEN ARE.
Another thing I greatly enjoyed about the Real Housewives preview was the airing of the Body Snake advertisement, the best commercial to hit the scene since the Snuggie. And lest you think I am exaggerating, I implore you to watch it now:
The fumbling guy! The fumbling guy's facial expressions!"Safely reach your bottom!" THE FACT THAT THE THING IS ACTUALLY CALLED A "BODY SNAKE." Seriously. Seriously. That is an actual commercial airing on television. I cannot stop replaying it. Because as always, I am apparently easily amused.
In other news, I am still running the Pull-Ups giveaway contest on my other blog. Your odds of winning now are EXCELLENT.
Finally, it's time for another installment of Ask A Jew! This time, I'll be focusing on answering Sabbath-related questions, though really, as you know, I'll answer pretty much anything. (You know how much I love answering your questions, yes?) So by all means, ask away!
Have a great weekend, everyone.
Monday, April 13, 2009
For Maddie and Thalon
In truth, I was going to tell you all about some wacky-ass Passover hijinks today. Judging from my inbox, another installment of Ask a Jew was in order, because it seemed people wanted confirmation that yes, we Jews are in fact obligated to drink four (4) cups of wine during the Passover Seder, and they wanted to know the reasons why I really can't eat any bread for a week, and they needed to learn the tune to the "Frogs are Jumping Everywhere" song. I was going to talk to you about all this and more, like the best commercial ever I HAVE EVER SEEN, and the contest I have going on on my other blog (okay, I actually do have to mention that...contractual obligations...) or my brand-new, patented Kristen Stewart impression. I had some quality stuff to talk about, people.
But my heart's not in it today.
Passover and Easter are supposed to be times of renewal and hope, but this year is, pardon the pun, different from all other years. I've spent the past week alternating between crying for the losses of others, and being incredibly appreciative of what I have. When reading the beautiful, heartrending posts about sweet Maddie over the past week, I tried, I really tried, to take something from the horrible tragedy, and note how--terrible though it is--Maddie's cause galvanized our little blog world. I saw such good in so many people, joining together and rallying to the aid of a family most of us have never met.
I am by nature an optimist, for the most part, and I'm almost annoyingly cheerful most days. "Find the good" is pretty much my motto, right after "cheese is always the answer."
My heart, however, was just crushed once again when I learned that my friend Shana lost her sweet baby boy, Thalon.
Just a few short months ago, I was writing a tribute to Shana of an entirely different tone. I can't fathom how we got here, and how now, instead of discussing our mutual karaoke love or our adventures traipsing through Chicago, I'm squinting through my tears to see my keyboard. To tell you all what a good, kind mom she is, what a hilarious and devoted friend she is, and just how much my heart is hurting for her right now.
My faith--not Judaism in general, but MY faith--is not something I think I've ever discussed here, but right now, I have to tell you with utmost honesty that it's a bit shaken. This hurts too much, it hits too close to home, and above all, I can't understand how anyone in charge of this world could allow these things to happen.
Once again, I have to find the good, because it's the only way I can keep myself in check. I check Maddie's March of Dimes page daily, and smile as I see the donations climb higher. I look at Sarah, setting up a PayPal account to help Shana with Thalon's medical expenses and hospital stay. I look at Heather, Maddie's mom, in the depths of her own grief, reaching out to comfort Shana. People are good.
And so, if you feel so led, please consider helping Shana (via the PayPal link in Sarah's post) and contributing to March of Dimes in remembrance of Maddie.
More importantly, though, I would like to ask you all to do a small favor, for which I will be forever indebted to you. It's in the realm of my little "find the good" mantra: If you can, take some time today, and do one nice thing with Maddie in mind, and one nice thing with Thalon in mind. It can be anything; as simple as throwing out a discarded newspaper in the street, or something more challenging; say, holding your temper in check when someone insults you.
Why am I asking you to do this? It's just that...well, I keep thinking about these sweet little babies ascending to heaven, and how very nice it would be for them both to be escorted by a metric ton of good deeds done selflessly, and solely in their honor. Regardless of our individual beliefs, I know that we all strive to do good, and I can't think of a better reason than this.
Can you do this for them?
But my heart's not in it today.
Passover and Easter are supposed to be times of renewal and hope, but this year is, pardon the pun, different from all other years. I've spent the past week alternating between crying for the losses of others, and being incredibly appreciative of what I have. When reading the beautiful, heartrending posts about sweet Maddie over the past week, I tried, I really tried, to take something from the horrible tragedy, and note how--terrible though it is--Maddie's cause galvanized our little blog world. I saw such good in so many people, joining together and rallying to the aid of a family most of us have never met.
I am by nature an optimist, for the most part, and I'm almost annoyingly cheerful most days. "Find the good" is pretty much my motto, right after "cheese is always the answer."
My heart, however, was just crushed once again when I learned that my friend Shana lost her sweet baby boy, Thalon.
Just a few short months ago, I was writing a tribute to Shana of an entirely different tone. I can't fathom how we got here, and how now, instead of discussing our mutual karaoke love or our adventures traipsing through Chicago, I'm squinting through my tears to see my keyboard. To tell you all what a good, kind mom she is, what a hilarious and devoted friend she is, and just how much my heart is hurting for her right now.
My faith--not Judaism in general, but MY faith--is not something I think I've ever discussed here, but right now, I have to tell you with utmost honesty that it's a bit shaken. This hurts too much, it hits too close to home, and above all, I can't understand how anyone in charge of this world could allow these things to happen.
Once again, I have to find the good, because it's the only way I can keep myself in check. I check Maddie's March of Dimes page daily, and smile as I see the donations climb higher. I look at Sarah, setting up a PayPal account to help Shana with Thalon's medical expenses and hospital stay. I look at Heather, Maddie's mom, in the depths of her own grief, reaching out to comfort Shana. People are good.
And so, if you feel so led, please consider helping Shana (via the PayPal link in Sarah's post) and contributing to March of Dimes in remembrance of Maddie.
More importantly, though, I would like to ask you all to do a small favor, for which I will be forever indebted to you. It's in the realm of my little "find the good" mantra: If you can, take some time today, and do one nice thing with Maddie in mind, and one nice thing with Thalon in mind. It can be anything; as simple as throwing out a discarded newspaper in the street, or something more challenging; say, holding your temper in check when someone insults you.
Why am I asking you to do this? It's just that...well, I keep thinking about these sweet little babies ascending to heaven, and how very nice it would be for them both to be escorted by a metric ton of good deeds done selflessly, and solely in their honor. Regardless of our individual beliefs, I know that we all strive to do good, and I can't think of a better reason than this.
Can you do this for them?
Monday, April 6, 2009
Apparently, my procrastination techniques involve critiquing Paul Rudd and writing a Twilight musical
I'm sort of ignoring the fact that Passover begins on Wednesday night, and I haven't begun packing (we'll be traveling to J's parents and then mine for the holiday) or working out the logistics of living like nomads for the next week or so. What that means for you is that you're spared a post wherein I whine about said packing, and instead, get...whatever this is:
J and I go out to the movies relatively infrequently, so we try to make our selections count. Now, as you may or may not know, I have a crush on Paul Rudd. J is well aware of it, and he has a tiny man-crush on him as well, on account of The Awesome, so it’s cool. I could go on and on about how much I adore him, but why not let this remnant from my small but intense candlelit shrine picture I totally just drew right now, all casual-like, do the talking?
As you may have surmised, it was therefore a no-brainer that when the opportunity for a night out recently presented itself, J and I made a beeline to see I Love You, Man. I was excited. For the popcorn, and Slushee, yes, but also for the movie. In addition to Paul Rudd, I love a number of other people in the cast (Jason Segel, Rashida Jones, John Favreau), and was prepared for a rollicking good time. Which was a huge error on my part. Both the usage of the phrase "rollicking good time," and also, the high expectations.
I mean, I chuckled a few times, but overall? Bleh. Because here’s the thing: Paul Rudd is adorable (as always), but he’s truly at his best playing the douchebag. I mean, think about it: Clueless: Collegiate Granola Breath Douchebag. Anchorman: Sex Panther Douchebag. The 40 Year Old Virgin: Borderline Creepy Obsessed Ex-Boyfriend. Knocked Up: Smug, arch douchebag. Forgetting Sarah Marshall: That perma-high hotel employee on vacation that you want to punch in the face.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
And so, I was not really into this movie, where Paul’s character (Peter) is sort of a nebbishy, awkward guy. I did not enjoy seeing the usually smooth, confident Rudd stumble over his words, search for friends, and occasionally projectile vomit. It was disconcerting and incongruous, like seeing your biology teacher in the cereal aisle at the supermarket.
The same thing can be said for Jason Segel's character. He also played against type (i.e., the lovable oaf), with his character acting like a bona-fide crazy/aggressive person. It…wasn’t the best. Also, his teeth were icky, but now I’m just getting petty. (BUT NO I’M NOT! YOU HAVE TONS OF MONEY! INVEST IN SOME TEETH WHITENING GEL, MY GOD. )
Furthermore, perhaps the directors of the aforementioned movies were better at coaxing improvised performances from Rudd (and Segel), but here, it was PAINFULLY obvious when they were attempting to do so, and man, did they ever run some jokes into the ground. It was grating, rather than, you know, hilarious.
And please know, I adore most of the aforementioned movies. Clueless and Anchorman are a few of my all-time favorites, and Forgetting Sarah Marshall has an honest-to-God VAMPIRE MUSICAL, and--wait a minute...
(Oh. My. God. The wheels are turning…)
(Yes. Yes. MY GOD, I MUST DO IT.)
(TWILIGHT: THE MUSICAL!)
(I may have just had a psychotic break, but that doesn’t make my idea any less awesome.)
(Sample song: “Tomorrow: The Sparkle Song”)
The sun’ll come ouuuut,
Tomorrow!
And then my Edward will start to spaaaaarkle,
In the sunnnnnnn!
Just thinkin’ about
Tomorrow,
Makes me wish I could walk in a straight line,
I’m a kluuuuuutz!
When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonelyyyyy,
I tell Edward to glug,
My blood!
Type AAAAAAAA!
Ohhhhhhh…
The sun’ll come out,
Tomorrow!
And Edward will sparkle,
And then murmurrrr.
RENESSSSSSSSSME!
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
He’ll sparkle!
Tomorrow!
“Renesme” is not a naaaaaame!
Whoa.
Where was I? Ah, yes. In short: I Love You, Man: not so great. The concept of a Twilight musical: definite greatness potential.
(Please don't make me pack! Quick! Give me the title for the next song in Twilight: The Musical! I shall write it now! Or reorganize my linen closet! ANYTHING BUT PACK.)
J and I go out to the movies relatively infrequently, so we try to make our selections count. Now, as you may or may not know, I have a crush on Paul Rudd. J is well aware of it, and he has a tiny man-crush on him as well, on account of The Awesome, so it’s cool. I could go on and on about how much I adore him, but why not let this
As you may have surmised, it was therefore a no-brainer that when the opportunity for a night out recently presented itself, J and I made a beeline to see I Love You, Man. I was excited. For the popcorn, and Slushee, yes, but also for the movie. In addition to Paul Rudd, I love a number of other people in the cast (Jason Segel, Rashida Jones, John Favreau), and was prepared for a rollicking good time. Which was a huge error on my part. Both the usage of the phrase "rollicking good time," and also, the high expectations.
I mean, I chuckled a few times, but overall? Bleh. Because here’s the thing: Paul Rudd is adorable (as always), but he’s truly at his best playing the douchebag. I mean, think about it: Clueless: Collegiate Granola Breath Douchebag. Anchorman: Sex Panther Douchebag. The 40 Year Old Virgin: Borderline Creepy Obsessed Ex-Boyfriend. Knocked Up: Smug, arch douchebag. Forgetting Sarah Marshall: That perma-high hotel employee on vacation that you want to punch in the face.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
And so, I was not really into this movie, where Paul’s character (Peter) is sort of a nebbishy, awkward guy. I did not enjoy seeing the usually smooth, confident Rudd stumble over his words, search for friends, and occasionally projectile vomit. It was disconcerting and incongruous, like seeing your biology teacher in the cereal aisle at the supermarket.
The same thing can be said for Jason Segel's character. He also played against type (i.e., the lovable oaf), with his character acting like a bona-fide crazy/aggressive person. It…wasn’t the best. Also, his teeth were icky, but now I’m just getting petty. (BUT NO I’M NOT! YOU HAVE TONS OF MONEY! INVEST IN SOME TEETH WHITENING GEL, MY GOD. )
Furthermore, perhaps the directors of the aforementioned movies were better at coaxing improvised performances from Rudd (and Segel), but here, it was PAINFULLY obvious when they were attempting to do so, and man, did they ever run some jokes into the ground. It was grating, rather than, you know, hilarious.
And please know, I adore most of the aforementioned movies. Clueless and Anchorman are a few of my all-time favorites, and Forgetting Sarah Marshall has an honest-to-God VAMPIRE MUSICAL, and--wait a minute...
(Oh. My. God. The wheels are turning…)
(Yes. Yes. MY GOD, I MUST DO IT.)
(TWILIGHT: THE MUSICAL!)
(I may have just had a psychotic break, but that doesn’t make my idea any less awesome.)
(Sample song: “Tomorrow: The Sparkle Song”)
The sun’ll come ouuuut,
Tomorrow!
And then my Edward will start to spaaaaarkle,
In the sunnnnnnn!
Just thinkin’ about
Tomorrow,
Makes me wish I could walk in a straight line,
I’m a kluuuuuutz!
When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonelyyyyy,
I tell Edward to glug,
My blood!
Type AAAAAAAA!
Ohhhhhhh…
The sun’ll come out,
Tomorrow!
And Edward will sparkle,
And then murmurrrr.
RENESSSSSSSSSME!
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
He’ll sparkle!
Tomorrow!
“Renesme” is not a naaaaaame!
Whoa.
Where was I? Ah, yes. In short: I Love You, Man: not so great. The concept of a Twilight musical: definite greatness potential.
(Please don't make me pack! Quick! Give me the title for the next song in Twilight: The Musical! I shall write it now! Or reorganize my linen closet! ANYTHING BUT PACK.)
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Potty Ambassador actually tries potty training her kid! (And talking about herself in the third person!)
My newest Pull-Ups potty training post is live at my review blog. It covers our first day actually potty training T, and it went...surprisingly better than expected. Huzzah!
After receiving an almost comically large shipment of Pull-Ups a few weeks ago, it was time to commence the potty training process in earnest. (For those of you just tuning in, I have recently been appointed a Pull-Ups Potty Ambassador, writing about the process of helping my son, T, make the transition from diapers.)
I did a LOT of research before commencing the process; not in a creepy over-involved parent way, but more in the “OH MY GOD I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING, LIKE EVEN A TINY LITTLE BIT AIEEEEEE!!!!” type of way. As I’m sure you can imagine, there are as many theories and philosophies about potty training as there are weirdos at an American Idol audition. It was important for me, therefore, to check out everything, see what worked for other parents, and distill the most promising ideas to something that would work for my kid’s personality. Here’s what I came up with:
After receiving an almost comically large shipment of Pull-Ups a few weeks ago, it was time to commence the potty training process in earnest. (For those of you just tuning in, I have recently been appointed a Pull-Ups Potty Ambassador, writing about the process of helping my son, T, make the transition from diapers.)
I did a LOT of research before commencing the process; not in a creepy over-involved parent way, but more in the “OH MY GOD I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING, LIKE EVEN A TINY LITTLE BIT AIEEEEEE!!!!” type of way. As I’m sure you can imagine, there are as many theories and philosophies about potty training as there are weirdos at an American Idol audition. It was important for me, therefore, to check out everything, see what worked for other parents, and distill the most promising ideas to something that would work for my kid’s personality. Here’s what I came up with:
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Updated: The Bela Karolyi School of Crawling and a Very Special List
I am so grateful to you for your sweet responses to my last post. While the post meant a great deal to me, I--well, I’m usually not one for the serious posts. I love READING other people's, but I always get incredibly nervous writing them myself, like you're going to start pelting me with tomatoes, or--in the internet corollary--inundating me with spam (touting ways in which I can turn my “man hose” into a “truue luv bone” or places I can buy my very own PhD, obviously) for attempting to write anything of substance. Which is clearly not the case, and I truly appreciate your kind words.
So, thank you, seriously, for reading.
* * * * * * * *
Lo is thisclose to crawling. Up on all fours, rocking back and forth, moving her hands around, and then…plopping onto her stomach, frustratedly shrieking in a pitch that is eerily similar to that of an overexcited ANTM contestant. It was annoying me, honestly, because: (a) the shrieking, MY GOD THE SHRIEKING; and (b) she totally COULD crawl, but was being stubborn.
As a result, I inducted her into the Bela Karolyi School of Crawling earlier this evening. And if you don’t know who he is, then you have obviously never seen the made-for-T.V.movie Nadia, which is all about the fascinating life and turbulent times of former Olympic champion gymnast Nadia Comaneci, and then I just feel sorry for you. Anyway, I can’t go into all of my teachings, but they include (though are not limited to): a Hansel & Gretel-esque trail of fruit puffs, the gentle coaxing of chubby baby legs into Proper Crawl Formation, and the loving…nudging of said chubby baby legs along in the direction of the fruit puffs, all the while offering words of encouragement in a quasi-Romanian accent. I have to say, it worked. Kind of. I mean, at the end of our session, she was inching each leg forward ONCE, all on her own, and then…plopping back onto her stomach. But still--progress! We’ll try again tomorrow, though I’ve instructed J to stop me if I start wearing track suits and growing a hypnotically luxurious mustache.
In other news, my secret Twitter boyfriend Michael Ian Black (who DOESN’T love his commentary on I Love the '70s/'80s/'90s/New Millennium/SuperDistantFutureEra?) recently wrote about his anti-“bucket list”--called his F*ck It List--wherein he lists all the things he doesn’t care about doing before he dies. To which I say, awesome. And also, that I’m following suit. In no particular order:
Metalia’s F*ck It List
1. Understand NASCAR – I sort of suspect that it really IS just racing around an oval track very fast. If I’m right, the fact that it’s considered a sport AND that people attend it would just make me sad. And so, I prefer the mystery of NOT knowing.
2. Learn to appreciate scotch – I’ve tried, and honestly, it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed an open flame. I love vodka. I love wine. I even like a little tequila every now and then. So I think I can live the rest of my days in blissful oblivion to the “oaky” "smoky" and “velvety smooth” taste of scotch. Huuuurrrrl.
3. Pump gas – Okay, so I know this is a weird thing, but I’ve actually never pumped gas in my life. I grew up in New Jersey, which is one of the few states (what up, Oregon?) in which it’s illegal to pump your own gas. I now live in New York, where gas is significantly more expensive than in New Jersey, and so, we never fill up here, opting instead to fill up when we visit my family in Jersey. See where I’m going with this? We will likely live in New Jersey one day, and so, yeah. I will probably never pump gas. It looks kind of intimidating, and yes, I know I sound completely moronic right now, but I’m SORRY, HASN’T ANYONE SEEN ZOOLANDER? THAT GAS FIGHT-EXPLOSION COULD TOTALLY REALLY HAPPEN LIKE FOR REAL.
4. Own a pet - I grew up with two cats and a dog, and I am DONE, people. I have had my sweaters peed on, and my shoes filled with cat barf. I have experienced the excitement of a clinically depressed dog on Prozac, and fancy dresses used as clawing posts. I have paid my dues. I know my kids will eventually beg me for a puppy, and I’ll admit that they’re adorable, but no. NO. I will remain firm. (heh)
5. Swim in the ocean – I know people are all about the serenity and rejuvenating properties of an ocean swim, but it petrifies me. Worst case, you get eaten by a shark, or dragged off in the undertow. Best case? You smell like a fish market, and have sand in your bum. Again, that's BEST CASE. Not gonna cut it, OCEAN.
6. Go to a U2 Concert – I like some of their music, but I don’t want to give Bono the satisfaction. I know he does a lot of good things, but he strikes me as a sanctimonious, smug jerk, and damned if I'm going to pay for another pair of his hideous sunglasses.
7. Skydiving, bungee jumping, paragliding – No.
8. Write the next great American novel – I think a big part of accomplishing your goals in life is knowing your limitations.
9. Have anyone serenade me with a guitar (ever again) - Ladies! IT’S JUST NOT WORTH IT.
10. Go camping (ever again) – Remind me to tell you all one day about the camping trip that will live in infamy, involving a broken-down car, an itinerant child we nicknamed Smelly Ralph, and a DAMN BEAR. Never again!
What about you? (Let me know if you do this; I’d love to read yours!)
UPDATE: I must address the question a lot of people seem to be asking, re: vacationing in a place where we would have to pump our own gas. I should point out that J grew up in NY, and is therefore well-versed in the fine art of pumping his own gas. As such, I always beg him do it whenever we're in a state where such activity is sanctioned by the law. He obliges, but makes me promise to pay attention so I can learn how to do it myself, and I agree, but then COMPLETELY INVOLUNTARILY start spacing out and thinking about really important things, such as red velvet cupcakes, and how I would like to be eating one right that very second, and also, the awe-inspiring Tom Cruise movie, Legend, which includes not only a pre-Scientology, early-'80s Tom playing a forest elf man who must stop Tim Curry/the devil from slaying a magical unicorn, for if he fails, Darkness will fall upon the land and PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS SEEN THIS MOVIE.
As a result, I still do not know how to pump gas.
So, thank you, seriously, for reading.
* * * * * * * *
Lo is thisclose to crawling. Up on all fours, rocking back and forth, moving her hands around, and then…plopping onto her stomach, frustratedly shrieking in a pitch that is eerily similar to that of an overexcited ANTM contestant. It was annoying me, honestly, because: (a) the shrieking, MY GOD THE SHRIEKING; and (b) she totally COULD crawl, but was being stubborn.
As a result, I inducted her into the Bela Karolyi School of Crawling earlier this evening. And if you don’t know who he is, then you have obviously never seen the made-for-T.V.movie Nadia, which is all about the fascinating life and turbulent times of former Olympic champion gymnast Nadia Comaneci, and then I just feel sorry for you. Anyway, I can’t go into all of my teachings, but they include (though are not limited to): a Hansel & Gretel-esque trail of fruit puffs, the gentle coaxing of chubby baby legs into Proper Crawl Formation, and the loving…nudging of said chubby baby legs along in the direction of the fruit puffs, all the while offering words of encouragement in a quasi-Romanian accent. I have to say, it worked. Kind of. I mean, at the end of our session, she was inching each leg forward ONCE, all on her own, and then…plopping back onto her stomach. But still--progress! We’ll try again tomorrow, though I’ve instructed J to stop me if I start wearing track suits and growing a hypnotically luxurious mustache.
In other news, my secret Twitter boyfriend Michael Ian Black (who DOESN’T love his commentary on I Love the '70s/'80s/'90s/New Millennium/SuperDistantFutureEra?) recently wrote about his anti-“bucket list”--called his F*ck It List--wherein he lists all the things he doesn’t care about doing before he dies. To which I say, awesome. And also, that I’m following suit. In no particular order:
Metalia’s F*ck It List
1. Understand NASCAR – I sort of suspect that it really IS just racing around an oval track very fast. If I’m right, the fact that it’s considered a sport AND that people attend it would just make me sad. And so, I prefer the mystery of NOT knowing.
2. Learn to appreciate scotch – I’ve tried, and honestly, it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed an open flame. I love vodka. I love wine. I even like a little tequila every now and then. So I think I can live the rest of my days in blissful oblivion to the “oaky” "smoky" and “velvety smooth” taste of scotch. Huuuurrrrl.
3. Pump gas – Okay, so I know this is a weird thing, but I’ve actually never pumped gas in my life. I grew up in New Jersey, which is one of the few states (what up, Oregon?) in which it’s illegal to pump your own gas. I now live in New York, where gas is significantly more expensive than in New Jersey, and so, we never fill up here, opting instead to fill up when we visit my family in Jersey. See where I’m going with this? We will likely live in New Jersey one day, and so, yeah. I will probably never pump gas. It looks kind of intimidating, and yes, I know I sound completely moronic right now, but I’m SORRY, HASN’T ANYONE SEEN ZOOLANDER? THAT GAS FIGHT-EXPLOSION COULD TOTALLY REALLY HAPPEN LIKE FOR REAL.
4. Own a pet - I grew up with two cats and a dog, and I am DONE, people. I have had my sweaters peed on, and my shoes filled with cat barf. I have experienced the excitement of a clinically depressed dog on Prozac, and fancy dresses used as clawing posts. I have paid my dues. I know my kids will eventually beg me for a puppy, and I’ll admit that they’re adorable, but no. NO. I will remain firm. (heh)
5. Swim in the ocean – I know people are all about the serenity and rejuvenating properties of an ocean swim, but it petrifies me. Worst case, you get eaten by a shark, or dragged off in the undertow. Best case? You smell like a fish market, and have sand in your bum. Again, that's BEST CASE. Not gonna cut it, OCEAN.
6. Go to a U2 Concert – I like some of their music, but I don’t want to give Bono the satisfaction. I know he does a lot of good things, but he strikes me as a sanctimonious, smug jerk, and damned if I'm going to pay for another pair of his hideous sunglasses.
7. Skydiving, bungee jumping, paragliding – No.
8. Write the next great American novel – I think a big part of accomplishing your goals in life is knowing your limitations.
9. Have anyone serenade me with a guitar (ever again) - Ladies! IT’S JUST NOT WORTH IT.
10. Go camping (ever again) – Remind me to tell you all one day about the camping trip that will live in infamy, involving a broken-down car, an itinerant child we nicknamed Smelly Ralph, and a DAMN BEAR. Never again!
What about you? (Let me know if you do this; I’d love to read yours!)
UPDATE: I must address the question a lot of people seem to be asking, re: vacationing in a place where we would have to pump our own gas. I should point out that J grew up in NY, and is therefore well-versed in the fine art of pumping his own gas. As such, I always beg him do it whenever we're in a state where such activity is sanctioned by the law. He obliges, but makes me promise to pay attention so I can learn how to do it myself, and I agree, but then COMPLETELY INVOLUNTARILY start spacing out and thinking about really important things, such as red velvet cupcakes, and how I would like to be eating one right that very second, and also, the awe-inspiring Tom Cruise movie, Legend, which includes not only a pre-Scientology, early-'80s Tom playing a forest elf man who must stop Tim Curry/the devil from slaying a magical unicorn, for if he fails, Darkness will fall upon the land and PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS SEEN THIS MOVIE.
As a result, I still do not know how to pump gas.
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