Because clearly, enough hasn't been written on the subject.

I wish I was one of those people who’s all, “I don’t care what anyone thinks! I’m going to dance like nobody’s watching, just like that Inspirational Magnet says!” But you guys, people ARE watching, despite the claims of the Inspirational Magnet, and as much as I’d like to say I just shrug my shoulders and go about my business never caring what others think, the truth is, I’m not built that way.

This rambly introduction relates (kind of tangentially) to the Topic du Jour of compensated reviews. I have a new post up on my other blog, and frankly, given all the talk swirling around compensated reviews lately, I felt kind of icky just linking over to it without saying my piece. I was worried, you see, that you guys would roll your eyes at me (especially those of you who are new here, and didn't see the post I had written about reviews a while back) thinking I'm...well, I don't know WHAT, exactly, but I couldn't bear the thought of it being something negative. And so, here we are. The compensated review battle lines are being draw once again, and I find myself…

Not caring at all.

Let me rephrase that. I care (clearly) about the perception you guys have of me and the standards whereby I select and write product reviews, but in terms of The Bigger Picture? COULDN’T CARE LESS, people. Perhaps that leaves me squarely in the minority, but I ask you, honestly, and in no way rhetorically, what IS the big deal here? Because I’m honestly lost. Doesn't good writing always prevail? No? Seriously, TELL ME WHAT THE BIG DEAL IS HERE.

As always, I can’t and wouldn’t presume to speak for any group, but as for me, no matter what I’m writing about, I really do strive to put together something that resembles decent writing. I didn’t start my blog to get anything special, and although great opportunities have been thrown my way, most notably in the past year (I MET TIM GUNN FOR CRISSAKES OMFG), I…well, I don’t believe the way I write OR what I write has suffered for it. I never, ever sit down and post for the sake of posting, and to wit, I never, ever post something with which I’m not satisfied, here or on my review blog. And it’s funny, because my god, I’m writing about such utterly trivial nonsense half (okay, 95%) of the time, that I feel ridiculous even attempting to defend or qualify what I do as “decent writing.” (And no, I’m not fishing, this is simply FACT.) But caring about what I choose to write--compensated reviews AND regular posts, be they about my kids or Venn Diagrams of Top Gun-- in and of itself makes me a "good" writer. I know, I know. We’re not supposed to acknowledge that we think we write well, but honestly, not one of us would keep it up if we didn’t think we had something to offer.

And really, that's just the thing. We all started out blogs for our own personal reasons. And hey, maybe someone's reason WAS "I care about becoming a big-time review blogger getting major companies courting me, and then I'll share my knowledge with the world!" It might not be your reason or my reason, but what makes that reason any less valid than the oft-repeated "I wanted to find other moms like me" refrain? Perhaps some people feel jealous, perhaps some people feel threatened, perhaps others bristle at the thought of people dictating How Things Should Be. I DON'T KNOW, and as stated, I'm genuinely confused as to the storm that's brewing. I'm not resorting to platitudes or saying "can't we all just get along?" Because--no. Not my point. I just wanted to get my feelings out about this.

There's a quote I love, and in many ways, try to incorporate into my life: "To doubt everything or to believe everything are two equally convenient solutions. Both dispense with the need for thought." (credit: H. Poincare. And also, the New York City subway system.) I feel like it applies in so many ways to so many things. And with this, really, I look at each blog I read in a vacuum, and not in some black and white world where I Must Choose A Side. I've read some wonderfully inventive reviews, and I've read some dull regular blog posts. (What? WE ALL HAVE.) I've read blog posts that make me want to toss my laptop on a bonfire, weeping "I will never be that good!" and review posts that were clearly written with one hand out for the paycheck. WHATEVER. Point is, there's no absolute here, at least not one that I can see.

And despite what some other bloggers have experienced, I PERSONALLY have never been ambushed by a review. Every paid review I've ever seen has been clearly marked as such, and I follow that same practice, in the interest of full disclosure. I write honestly about the products I'm reviewing and think FOR A WHILE not only about how to say what I want to in a way that's not only tactful, but hopefully engaging to anyone who's reading it. When you put time and effort into your writing, it comes across. I hope.

And finally, on that note, yes, I do have a new post up on my other blog. Yes, I was compensated, but yes, I care about and stand behind it as I do everything I post here. You can read it, or not. But please know that I will never, ever try to trick you into reading what is clearly a compensated review, or shortchange you by throwing utter horseshit on the screen here, or there. I started this blog a few years ago with one reader, then two, and then a few more, and so on. I am grateful and happy that I HAVE people who read and comment on what I write, and I'd never try to take advantage of that. So, thank you for reading this, and well, everything of mine that you choose to read. Now, let's all get back to talking about the REALLY important stuff, like what the American Apparel ad team is smoking. Because MY GOD.

Things that I do instead of packing

Exactly one week from tonight, I’ll be frantically running around packing for not only myself, but both kids as we plan to depart for my sweet cousin’s wedding in Chicago. Where will J be, you ask? Oh, FUNNY STORY. He happens to have a business trip in Vegas for which he leaves early next week, and while he will be meeting us in Chicago, I AM THE SOLE PARENT RESPONSIBLE FOR PACKING, TRANSPORTING, AND TRAVELING TO THE AIRPORT WITH TWO KIDS. My mom is flying with me, BUT STILL. A likely story, J. Vegas, my ass. He’s totally visiting his secret other family in Monaco so as to avoid flying with me and the kids. I’M ON TO YOU, MISTER.

Anyway, I’m ordinarily a champion listmaker, but somehow, the task of packing for five (5) days for three (3) people is too vast, and that, coupled with my crippling fear of flying, has reduced my packing list to nothing. Well, not nothing, as the piece of paper once hopefully labeled “Packing List for Chicago” did contain a vague “gold sandals and white dress with black stripes,” and “kids’ vitamins,” (I will be looking foxy as I provide my children with essential minerals in Chicago!), but then quickly devolved into a five-item grocery list which included cheese twice, and a few stanzas to yet another song I’m working on called “All the Twitter Ladies” (sample lyric: “All the Twitter ladies! All the Twitter ladies…If you liked my tweet you shoulda put a star by it...”). And then once I started working on that, I got to thinking about what songs I'd want to sing at the karaoke portion of my cousin’s bachelorette party. Now that I have the Flip, the world must finally see me perform “Don’t Stop Believin,” but I was wondering if maybe I should mix it up a bit with some Kelly Clarkson, and OH MY GOD I started this list TWO WEEKS AGO, and this is all I have to show for it. (Well, this, and two types of cheese.)

Plus, if I’m being truly honest, I’d tell you that all the talk of songs on my main packing list necessitated the creation of a secondary packing-list-that-isn’t-really called “Questions I Have About The Song ‘Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard’,” (inspired by this) which I’ve already shared with Bearca, my partner in song-dissecting crime:

1. If the Mama Pajama was really so upset that she had to go directly to the police station, how could she even have slept?

2. I mean, the song says she “rolled out of bed,” right?

3. How did Papa know about the alleged offense if Mama Pajama was already gone?

4. I mean, again, if what Mama saw was against the law, I’d think she’d have gone to the station house right when she saw it, instead of, oh, I don't know, sleeping, amirite? LAZY ASS.

5. What did the boy do? I’m quite worried.

6. Don’t people think it’s weird when Mama spits every time his name gets mentioned?

7. What if she’s indoors?

8. Does she carry a small spittoon for this express purpose?

9. Is Rosie the Queen of Corona of any relation to Abe Frohman, the Sausage King of Chicago?

10. Oh, and now Julio is all up in the mix. How’d he get involved?

11. Wait, wait. I thought that the boy was on his way already, but didn’t know where he was going. NOW he's saying they’re taking him away? CHRONOLOGY FAIL.

12. So when you hear the radical priest is the one who’s coming to get a boy released from prison, you’re going to have some concerns, right? It’s not just me?

13. No, seriously. What did the boy do?

14. Is Rosie really Julio? Is that what this is all about?

15. Should I just go with that, and assume that “down by the schoolyard" is some kind of euphemism?

16. I’m going to say yes.



Of course, that begat this:

Some Long-Unanswered Questions Upon Hearing "Wind Beneath My Wings"

1. You know what makes the singer, aka, My Wings, the biggest douchebag? SHE’S WRITING A SONG ABOUT HER OWN FAME AND GLORY.

2. I mean, yeah, ostensibly it’s about the “Wind,” aka, her underling, but it’s a thinly-veiled puff piece about her own awesomeness, if you think about it.

3. Like, how do YOU know, My Wings, that Wind was pained because you were famous?

4. You just assumed, I guess. Big surprise there.

5. Well, not everyone wants to be famous, you pompous witch.

6. Did you ever stop and think that maybe Wind was cool with letting you do all the hard work, and just taking a cut of your money?

7. Also, you know what flies higher than eagles?

8. AIRPLANES.

9. So basically, you’re saying that Wind didn’t even do all that much for you.

10. It’d be like me writing a song about how my long-suffering best friend imbued me the power to…go as fast as one of those mechanical scooters fr the elderly and infirm.

11. “The Batteries in my Rascal,” my song would be called.

12. Yeah, not so magnanimous now, are you, My Wings?

13. Oh, you’ve got it all there in your HEART, do you?

14. Well that does everyone a lot of good. No, no, really. Don’t you worry about actually thanking Wind.

15. Oh, seriously? SERIOUSLY? You’re thanking God now? Really? Are we at the Grammys? When does your new album drop?

16. How about thanking Wind? Again, just a thought, jerkface.

And basically, now I go through my days secretly thinking of new songs to analyze. Or diagram in a Venn-like fashion. It’s a compulsion. Whatever, the point is, something I’m NOT doing is packing, or making any real preparations to pack. I finally attempted to get myself in gear today by figuring out how the hell I was going to transport the children to, in and around Chicago, and here’s the part where I explain how Twitter is amazing. I had been unsuccessfully attempting to Google the name of some sort of portable wheeling car seat that (I've heard) is ideal for plane/ground transportation, and after about 45 fruitless minutes, I posed my question on Twitter. Not only did I get the answer in under a minute from a bunch of people (it’s a Sit n’ Stroll, FYI), but the lovely and generous Velma offered to send me her old one. A few emails later, and it’s on its way to me. So, as you can imagine, inspired by the kindness of virtual friends, I spent a few minutes today adding “ACQUIRE TRAVEL CAR SEAT WITH THE WHEELS” to my original packing list with a flourish, for the sole purpose of crossing it off.

PEOPLE. I HAVE A PROBLEM. In order to help me get my ass in gear, can you suggest things I might need or want to do in order to make this trip a smooth one? It's the first flight for both of the kids, so I'm extra frazzled, and full of questions. For instance, how do I efficiently get through security without people giving me murderous stares, but still remembering to take all key items with me off the conveyor belt? Such as my shoes? What do I take for the plane in order to entertain not one but two children, ages (almost) 1 and (almost) 3? I have a Leapster for T, and candy will figure prominently in my plot to stave off The Whining, but what the hell do I do about the baby? She can’t be bribed with candy, and is a squirmy worm to begin with. Do I bring her car seat on the plane? No, right? But what about for T? And-- oh man, he’s recently toilet-trained. What if he tells me he needs to pee during takeoff? OR WORSE? And what do I do if they misbehave and the fellow passengers start in with the feared murderous stares? OH MY GOD I am actually in a shivery cold sweat just typing this.

Help me. Please.

The Contest winner, a fake sneezing baby, bank complaint poetry, and Venn diagrams: Something for everyone.

There were a few things I'd indicated I wanted to discuss in my last post, but let's first get down to brass tacks, shall we? And no, I won't bore you with the origins of that particular phrase, even though I am totally That Girl, the one who loooooves trivia and finding out how sayings came about, and basically, I'm about one suede-patch tweed jacket and pipe away from some sort of Frasier-like douchetude.

So, the winner of the Zits Motion Comics contest. I know I'm repeating myself here when I say, once again, how appreciative I am for your participation and feedback and support. My husband--and his colleagues-- were so pleased by the response, so THANK YOU. Again.

In the interest of full disclosure, I feel compelled to discuss the process whereby I arrived at the winner. And yeah, this is exactly like that interminable minute at the Academy Awards when the dudes from Price Waterhouse walk out with their briefcases of sealed envelopes, and start caressing the ballots, and blabbing on about the ballots, and you're all, "SHUT UP ABOUT THE BALLOTS, RANDOM BEARDED TUX MAN! NO ONE CARES WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY! BRING BACK PENELOPE CRUZ SO I CAN STUDY HER EYE MAKEUP AND ATTEMPT TO COPY IT." Er, maybe that's just me. Regardless, I like to be open about these things.

There were 189 entries. Because I am a stickler, I had to abide by my stated deadline of noon EST on 5/19, which meant, unfortunately, that the last five entries (all of which were posted after such time) were not included in the set, leaving us with 184 potential winners. I utilized randomizer.org to make my selection. It selected number 60. Blogger is a bitch, in that it doesn't number comments, so I forced myself to count them manually not once, not twice, but THRICE to ensure I was correct before announcing the winner. And the winner of the $50 Sephora gift card is....

Jen of I'm Really Not That Busy!



Congratulations, Jen! Although I don't know you, I already love you because you have a picture of your adorable baby adjacent a giant-ass tub of cheese balls on your blog. Lady, I adore giant-ass tubs of cheese balls. And babies. Please send me your address, and I'll get the prize out to you!

Speaking of babies, I'd mentioned last week that Lo has started fake sneezing. And my god, people, it's pretty much the cutest thing I've ever seen. Oh, and yes, I HAVE SEEN THE SNEEZING BABY PANDA. J and the kids got me a Flip video camera for Mother's Day, so I'd been stealthily trying to catch her in the act, but each time I tried, she looked at me disdainfully, her eyes clearly saying, "I'm not here to entertain you, mother." Well, joke's on her, because I sneaked up on her, ninja-like, and captured it.



The best part is how I try to get into it at the end with a little fake sneeze action of my own, and she totally ignores me, like I ruined her fun. I do believe I'm getting a glimpse of her adolescence.

In other news, my bank card was either lost or stolen on Monday, which, you know, just makes for a fabulous day. Now, I could rant incessantly about my experience in trying to get it canceled and reissued, but c'mon, let's all admit that people blogging about that shit is generally boring. That said, I do want to let my bank know how upset I am with them, and so, I channeled my rage into a brief poem:

Why, Citibank, Why?

Monday I called Citibank Customer Service
To report my card totally missing.
I was immediately routed far overseas,
Where "Rick" had me seething and hissing.

After asking me for my mom's maiden name,
S.S.N. and other ID,
He demanded I tell him the full card number,
Which I no longer had on me.

I explained that since the card was now gone,
This was info I no longer possessed.
He said "that's a shame" and I began ranting
Since he had the IQ of a...garlic press.(eh.)

He told me I should call them back later from home,
When I had a statement with the number.
I may have inquired about his mental state,
And perhaps may have threatened to rumble.

"I can't be the first one to face this issue!"
I asked him, incredulously.
"I'm sorry, but my hands are tied, ma'am" he countered,
Ever so imperiously.

Long story short, I was transferred four times,
And "Mary" then came to my rescue.
She took care of things in a matter of seconds,
Closed the lost card and made a re-issue.

But still, Citibank, I just cannot believe your wretched customer service.
Mary, of course, was helpful to me, and I'd daresay she's my hero.
But moronic Rick just stonewalled me,
As I pictured my account nearing "0. "

So if someone's calling to report a card
That's been stolen or lost, but not found,
Why can't you make the process straightforward,
And not this protracted runaround?

Ahhhhh. See? I feel better, and you didn't have to read an eighteen-paragraph, ire-filled missive. Everybody wins!

And finally, as promised, a little Venn action. Just because this showcases my THREE CIRCLE Venn prowess (though not my drawing skills. Clearly). And because I'm still clearly not over the obsession. And because Center Stage will never not be eminently, craptastically, addictingly watchable.



(And speaking of eminently, craptastically, addictingly watchable things, REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NJ, OMFG. That show deserves a poem of its very own. And possibly a Venn Diagram. Hmmm. Stay tuned.)

Yes, ANOTHER one.

I just realized I totally made it quasi-sound like I'm with child. NO I AM NOT. But what I am...with, is another contest! And horribly constructed sentences! The $50 Sephora Giftcard/Motion Comics one is still ongoing, but over at my review blog, I assess some new Max Factor products (along with my apparently complex issues with Katy Perry), where you can win a bunch of Max Factor goodies. I shall return next week with more mainstream posts, including Venn Diagrams (obvs.) hobo talk, and a video of the baby FAKE SNEEZING ZOMG.

Cover Me

First of all, I have to thank you for the incredible response to the contest I’m running to promote the Motion Comics on behalf of my husband. He and I really, really appreciate your participation and your feedback. And if you haven’t entered yet, what are you waiting for? $50 SEPHORA GIFTCARD UP FOR GRABS.)

* * * * * * * * * *

I’m in a bit of a music rut lately, and I therefore solicited the guidance of all-knowing Twitter yesterday about people’s favorite cover songs. (I love cover songs. And making inconsequential decisions based upon information gleaned from Twitter. Whatever. I don’t care who knows it.) I subsequently fell down a crazy rabbit hole of iTunes purchases/YouTube video searches, as I listened to all the new stuff that was being suggested. I’m sharing my own favorites, and the responses I received with you here in the event that you, too, are looking for new music and/or share my unrepentant love of cover songs. Because really, it's too good not to share.

Here are ten covers that are in constant rotation on my iPod:

"Smells Like Teen Spirit" – Tori Amos (Nirvana)-- Sometimes, when I’m driving and this song pops up on shuffle, I try to sing along. I suspect that if anyone were ever to secretly record my yowling whisper-shrieks, I would become an instant YouTube sensation. I like to think my viral video would garner me a cool nickname like “Nirvana Singing Driving Banshee,” and maybe I’d get free Munchkins at Dunkin’ Donuts when the employees would recognize me, and perhaps I’d achieve a modicum of fame in portions of Europe. I mean, whatever. I haven’t put that much thought into this, so it’s no big deal. I’m breezy.

"Run" - Leona Lewis (Snow Patrol) - I loved the stripped-down original, but man, am I ever a sucker for a big ol’ backing choir.

"I Will Survive" – Cake (Gloria Gaynor) – The less said about the tragicomic tale of woe involving me repeatedly playing this after a breakup in college, the better. Except that I thought that it made it OKAY, and that I was SO not a GIANT WALKING CLICHÉ, because it was this version, instead of the original. Ugh. Shut up, Douchey College Me.

"Baby Got Back" - Jonathan Coulton (Sir Mix-a-lot) – I know the original by heart (I mean, really, who doesn’t?) but the first time I heard this, I was blown away by the clever cover. I like to think that wherever Sir Mix-A-Lot is right now, whether he’s rolling in his Mercedes, or expressing his displeasure with the beanpole dames in the magazines, he would approve.

"Hallelujah" – Jeff Buckley/Rufus Wainwright (Leonard Cohen) – Both are take-your-breath-away beautiful.

"Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright" - Ted Lennon and Brett Dennen (Bob Dylan) – Just gorgeous. I’m one of those assholes who, for the most part, enjoys Bob Dylan’s music more when other people are playing/singing it. I am okay with that.

"O Holy Night" - Kelly Clarkson (?????) – Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP. I like her, okay?

"Only You" –Joshua Radin feat. Ingrid Michaelson - (Yaz) As much as I’d like to say I closely followed Mr. Radin’s musical career, I, uh…(sigh) heard this song in a J.C. Penney commercial a while back, and did a mad scramble to find the cover artist.

"Long Black Veil" – Dave Matthews Band (Johnny Cash) - I usually loathe most Dave Matthews covers for the singular reason that they’re inevitably live from some random concert, and there’s like, a forty-seven minute guitar solo intro in which I lose the will to live, and it’s like “We GET IT, Dave, you are JAMMING. Because everyone’s high on THE AMAZING CONCERT OF WONDER. AND ALSO A LOT OF WEED. And you and the band are just LOST IN THE MUSIC. And together with the assembled audience, you have evolved into a glorious, scintillating entity of ONENESS AND MUSICALITY.” This cover, though, is somehow different. It’s under 87 minutes (always a plus!), doesn’t meander too much, and has gorgeous backing vocals from the Lovely Ladies. Also, the way he sings it is subdued and heartbreaking in a hurts-so-good type of way.

"Proud Mary" – Ike and Tina Turner (Creedence Clearwater Revival) – Best. Cover. Ever.

And here were the responses from my Twitter friends:

Because the Night -10,000 Maniacs (Patti Smith)
Billy Jean -Jason Mraz (Michael Jackson)
Careless Whisper - Seethers (Wham!)
Don't Leave Me This Way - The Communards (Thelma Houston)
Fields of Gold -Eva Cassidy (Sting)
Float On – Ben Lee (Modest Mouse)
Free Fallin’ – John Mayer (Tom Petty)
Friend of the Devil – Counting Crows (Grateful Dead)
Heatwave - Bronski Beat (Bing Crosby )
Heartless – Kris Allen (Kanye West)
Hey Ya –Obadia Parker (Outkast)
High and Dry – Jamie Cullum (Radiohead)
Hit Me Baby, One More Time - Travis (Britney Spears)
How Deep is Your Love - The Bird and the Bee (BeeGees)
Keep Your Hands to Yourself – Sawyer Brown (Georgia Satellites)
Landslide – Smashing Pumpkins (Fleetwood Mac)
Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jamie Cullum (Jeff Buckley)
Mad World - Nick Cave (Tears for Fears)
Mahna Mahna - Cake (old skool Sesame Street)
No Rain – Jane’s Addiction (Blind Melon)
Question – Ben Lee (Old 97s)
Scarlet Begonias - Jimmy Buffett (Grateful Dead)
Sea of Love - The Honeydrippers (Phil Phillips)
Tangled Up in Blue – Indigo Girls (Bob Dylan)
Toxic – Yael Naim (it’s Britney, bitch)
What Are You Waiting For – Franz Ferdinand (Gwen Stefani)
Wonderwall – Ryan Adams (Oasis)
Word Up! - Korn (Cameo)
You've Got to Hide Your Love Away - Eddie Vedder (Beatles)

Tell me, what songs are we missing? Because, you know, I haven't spent enough money on iTunes this week. (And by the way, the "Hey Ya" cover is AMAZING.)

* * * * * * * * *

Finally, I have two posts up elsewhere this week, if you’re interested. My final “Potty Ambassador” post is up on my other blog (spoiler alert: I have a potty-trained kid!) and over at BeautyHacks, I discuss bespoke fashion, and try on some of my old bridesmaid dresses for you. (I designed those suckers myself, people! Be nice!)

Have a great weekend!

Not Even the Fresh Prince: A love story of sorts, and a contest.

From time to time, I get questions here asking how J and I met, and the story is too long and complicated and personal to get into here, so I shy away from discussing it. And yeah, I realize I just made it seem like we met when I was putting myself through school by bikini Jell-O wrestling or something, but that’s not the case at all. We met after I’d put all that behind me, although I do still keep in touch with Mistress Sally from the circuit. Anyway, I don’t often speak about J on here, but again, that’s borne out of a desire to keep a little bit of my life to myself, and not because, I, you know, secretly loathe him. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth, and rather than bore you with gross shmoopiness, I will simply tell you why I know J and I are meant to be together. I think I may have mentioned this at some point in the past, but it bears repeating.

As a young boy, my darling and brilliant husband had a brief but costly addiction to calling the D.J. Jazzy Jeff Party Line. Yes, that is correct; DJ Jazzy Jeff had his own party line. There was a rap in the commercial, apparently, which young J found very compelling. And by compelling, I mean he claims to have called approximately 15 times in one month, hanging up mid-call. His plan was, apparently, to soak up all the DJ Jazzy Jeff-related goodness that he could in that free first minute, so as to avoid getting charged. Being young, he'd try to guess when the minute was up, and then boom, hang up.

The plan failed spectacularly; there were ridiculously high charges on the phone bill, and his parents wanted to kill him (but his sister took the fall. Awww). Now, obviously, there are some tough questions here, like "Did the opening message change from day to day, or was my future husband just repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting a different result, which is the very definition of insanity?" "How did Jazz even warrant his own hot line?" and of course, "What was the phone number? Obviously, the first part was 1-800, and the end part was J-A-Z-Z, but what about the middle? L-U-V? D-J-J?"

The thing is, though? I AM ALMOST AS BAD. It was only fairly recently that I finally admitted to him that when I was about 9, I may have once called the Corey Haim and Corey Feldman Teen Chat line. (And also got in trouble for it.) Now, obviously, his is SO MUCH WORSE. I mean, I made one call, and got two “celebrities,” which is just good economic sense right there, if you ask me. He got in trouble, and for what? DJ Jazzy frigging Jeff. Not even the Fresh Prince, people. NOT EVEN THE FRESH PRINCE.

Ever since we first realized that we weren't the...savviest of children, “NOT EVEN THE FRESH PRINCE” has become our new rallying call, and the statement that can and will set either of us off into a helpless giggle attack in even the most serious of situations. There’s nothing like still learning new (and admittedly hilarious) things about the person you’ve known for almost ten years, and with whom you’ve spent the past five-and-a-half years building a life. I love and support him, and honestly, people? With the exception of the horrifically negligent manner in which I maintain the clothing-covered chair in the corner of our bedroom, he’s incredibly encouraging with pretty much everything I do.

And so, here’s my point with all this. J works for a media company which owns, among other things, a ton of the licenses for the comics that run in the newspaper each day. They have been working on a new product, and there has been much brainstorming about how to get the word out, which he and I had been discussing, as well. I came up with a little idea of my own that I could execute, and wanted to surprise him, but I decided I had to first check with him to make sure it was kosher. (Hello, J’s company! I cover a great many important and serious topics here, such as the economy and world politics, and never anything about Top Gun or Twilight Drinking Games! What’s that you say? Flop sweat? Well, I never! It is simply warm in here, that’s all!)

Now, although it's no longer a surprise for him, here’s the deal: His company has created something called Motion Comics which are a cross between a regular comic strip and animation. The first release of the Motion Comics was for Zits (which was one of my favorite comic strips even before I knew J, and NO I’M NOT JUST SAYING THAT SERIOUSLY NO FOR REAL). I am telling you this because in order to help my husband publicize the Motion Comics, I’m running a (CRAZY EASY) contest. NO ONE has paid me to do this (or hell, um, even asked me to do this), it's just that I think the Motion Comics are cool, innovative, and I’m quite proud of my husband for having been involved. And if there's a way I can let people know about it, I figured hey, why not?

To enter the contest, just go to the YouTube channel that houses the Motion Comics. Watch a few of them, come back here, and simply say in your comment which one you liked the best.

Is that it? YES, THAT’S IT.While I can’t check up on you, all I ask is that you actually really do watch one (or more!) of the Motion Comics (they’re literally all of 30 seconds long, at most) before coming back to leave your comment.

Because the prize? It's good, people. A $50 Sephora gift card. I don’t play around. So, yeah. Be honest.



I must reiterate, no one is compensating me for this, and the cost of the gift card is out of my own pocket. I truly do this out of love for J, and that love is something no one can deny...NOT EVEN THE FRESH PRINCE.

(Contest will close on Tuesday, 5/19 at noon, E.S.T. I'll select a winner at random from all entries. Good luck!)

Questions, comments and confessions about spices, most of which I did not know I had until hiding in my pantry while on a call five minutes ago.

1. Mace? Why do I have a spice called Mace?

2. Ditto, Cream of Tartar. I'm envisioning a jar full of crap scraped off people's teeth, and-- EW. EWWWW.

3. I have in my possession both Montreal steak seasoning and Quebec steak seasoning. What, pray tell, is the difference?

4. Try saying Arrowroot 5 times fast.

5. Confession: I own Cajun seasoning made by one Mr. Emeril LaGasse. I whisper "Bam" under my breath when I use it, whilst dying a little inside.

6. If there is a more hilariously named spice blend than "Bone Suckin' Sauce Spice and Rub," I do not know what it is.

7. Wait. Dill weed. Heh heh.

8. I vacillate between saying "PAP-rika" and "Pap-RI-ka." I know I should pick a side and stick with it, but I'm evidently having some sort of strange commitment issues.

9. I know it's not a spice per se, but man, do I love Bac-Os. Tell me, do they actually taste anything like real bacon?

10. If I were to rim a glass containing a Bloody Mary with celery salt, would that be intensely weird, or SHEER GENIUS?

And because I have a problem, I'll leave you with this. Happy Friday:

I swear, the "punch" segue is entirely coincidental.

When I first became pregnant with T a few years back, I swore up and down that I’d try never to judge other parents’ child-rearing decisions. And for the most part, really, with the exception of my feelings towards every single adult who participates in Toddlers & Tiaras (Click on picture 7. You won’t be sorry!) I think I’ve been pretty good about that. But dude. DUUUUUDE. Everyone has their limits. Earlier today on Twitter, I mentioned my ever-growing wrath with the fact that I keep seeing babies all over the damn city with fruit punch in their bottles. Today was no different, as I watched a father pour a juice box of punch directly into a baby bottle and hand it to his adorable baby, who couldn't have been older than a year. This is like, the seventh time, people. Inevitably, I witness this on the subway, so I'm already insufferable, and--depending upon the crowding situation/whether or not it is a Drunken Merriment Day such as Cinco de Mayo—possibly being inappropriately groped. These joint factors conspire to make me kind of easily irked.

Though really, I’ve seen a lot of icky parenting on the subway. I’ve seen a baby, possibly born ten minutes earlier, riding the subway with his mom IN THE DEAD OF WINTER WHEN EVERYONE IS HORKING UP SNOTTY GERMS AND GERMY SNOT ALL OVER THE TRAIN CAR. I’ve seen another kid telling her mom that she's hungry as said mom calls her a “little piggy” and plows through a bag of fries herself. I’ve witnessed a baby with a mom who, while busy making out with her boyfriend, let go of the stroller as it sloooowly proceeded to drift across the subway car as we sped along. (Don’t worry, someone stopped it with their foot.) I’ve even seen a mom let her kid pee on the train. And when I say on the train, I do in fact mean ON THE TRAIN. But for some reason, the fruit punch thing enrages me like nothing else. And you guys were telling me that you’ve seen moms give their babies other awful shit, like Diet Coke, regular Coke, Frappuccinos, Sprite, Diet Dr. Pepper, and orange soda. Sweet lord. Why, parents? I mean, I will cop to occasionally giving my almost three-year-old a TASTE of juice or soda, but pouring it into a baby bottle is another thing entirely. I mean, my god. I judge them; I can’t help it, nor do I feel particularly guilty about it. But while we’re talking about punch (I am the segue queeeeeen!)...

...I must admit that I myself actually partook of some earlier this week. You see, the lovely Kristin was in town, and we went out for drinks at one of my favorite spots on Monday night. And hey, you know what sucks? Getting to spend an all-too-brief bit of time with someone who, until quite recently LIVED IN YOUR CITY, and realizing that you love her to bits and would totally have hung out a lot, if only she hadn’t subsequently moved across the country. I adore her, and here we are after having enjoyed alarmingly large glasses of Prohibition Punch.



Do you like her pimp hat? In my tipsy haze, I recalled her saying, “I look shiny in this picture!” So I took the liberty of crafting a jaunty, shine-concealing cap for her, lest her alleged shininess bother her when she sees this (otherwise perfect) shot. Because you know what? Sometimes, friendship means drawing jaunty hats on someone's head.

Finally, and apropos of nothing, I am a recent (within the past year or so) convert to the Temple of How I Met Your Mother, and OH MY GOD, I couldn’t stop laughing at this week’s episode. Notably, this scene:



To the surprise of exactly no one, I’ve subsequently devoted my life to coming up with my own Venn diagram that rivals the brilliance of Marshall’s “Cecilia” one:



I discussed it with Bearca (who you might recall from our iPhone rap, “Duck This Shot”), who then came up with this awesomeness right here…



Her husband got into the game, as well:



And Nicole jumped in with this brilliance:



Whereupon Holly got into the action:



And now I REALLY can’t stop, and need an intervention of my own.



No, seriously. Send help.





Or, you know, more Venn diagram ideas.

Yeesh. Apparently, I do not explain things well.

I received a few comments and emails on the Ask a Jew: Sabbath edition post which all said essentially the same thing: Isn't leaving the lights on/utilizing electricity/cooking/etc. on Sabbath "cheating"? This upset me, and I say this NOT to point fingers, because really, anyone who raised the issue with me did so respectfully, and genuinely, I believe, not in a stir-the-pot fashion. No, I'm upset at myself, because that means I clearly did an oversimplified, piss-poor job of explaining. So, I'm sorry for that; if anyone came away with the impression that Jews who utilize electricity of any type on Sabbath are, I guess, trying to cheat the rules, or using loopholes, it's not the case, and I'll endeavor to explain that more clearly in a moment.

As you know, I'm not a rabbi, and as I have said time and agian, I'm not an expert in Jewish law, but since I have taken on the "responsibility" of putting my explanations out there in these posts (OMFG I SOUND LIKE THE WORLD'S BIGGEST DOUCHE PLEASE HELP), I kind of feel like it's also my responsibility to clear up any mistaken impressions said posts might present. I was going to just tack this on as an addendum to the last post, but I have no idea if anyone ever reads updated posts, and it was really important to me that I clarified this. (Also, I realized I left out some questions that were asked, and I saw in the comments that some new ones were raised, and I'm filing them all away for next time.)

So! Here's the deal:

The Sabbath is supposed to be a day of rest, one where we refrain from work. As I'd mentioned in the post, the specific prohibitions all branch off of a list of 39 forms of work that were utilized in the building of the Mishkan (the portable Temple that the Jews carried with them in the desert after leaving Egypt). In terms of utilizing electricity, the prohibition isn't against deriving a benefit from a flame/hot oven/lamp. It's against the creation of the spark/completion of the circuit in the first place. We're not supposed to do "work" on Sabbath, but enjoying, for instance, a light, or an air conditioner in some way once it's already set up for use before the Sabbath is completely permissible. Again, the focus is on the act of creation/"work," NOT using the item in question once it's been done ahead of time.

Is that clearer? I really hope so!