My Real Name...

…Is not something I will ever be revealing here.

Sorry to be annoying. The real title of the post should be "In Defense of the Pseudonymous Blogger." I write it not so much for 99% of you here, but rather, the people who come here searching for my real name, hence the nice and Google-friendly title. If you do choose to read on, thank you, and I'll reward you soon with pictures of me attempting to get my hair to look like a wig. No no, you read that right-- it's exactly what it sounds like. A FAKE WIG. God help me.

Can I be frank with you guys for a second?

While I’m sort of—well, VERY—proud of the fact that my blog was at one point the top Google search result for “Twilight drinking game,” there are other searches through which people arrive here that just plain frighten/anger me…such as the ones for my real name.

I had six searches for that today alone. SIX.

This is becoming a problem.

I’m quite careful when it comes to revealing my name online. I have a great job that I absolutely love, which is precisely WHY I am so careful at retaining quasi-anonymity online. Because people? Take my word for it, my first, middle and last names are EACH really unusual, so taken together, I can be googled in a HEARTBEAT. Those of you who are friends with me offline (whether through real life means, or by way of this blog), however, know that I have no problem divulging my real name outside of the internet. Most of my real-life friends know about my blog, and most of my family reads it. In fact, watch:

(Dramatization)

Me [writing a post]: "And then I said 'FUUUUUUUUCK.' The End!" [Hits publish.]

Phone: *ring, ring *

My mom: Stop cursing! Now I can’t show your blogs [not posts, but “blogs”] to my friends!

(End dramatization)

The anonymity, you see, more than anything, is a career maneuver, just as the casual swearing is a tacit strategy to keep my mom’s friends at bay. I am a crafty little minx.

But as much as I’d like to think I have some sense of who reads my stuff, the reality is that I don’t. Like, at all. And knowing that, I write here straddling some really weird line of “man, I hope no one who googles [my real name] links it to this blog, but if they do somehow make the connection, I don’t think there’s anything particularly offensive here, with the exception of the incestuous cougar Olive Garden commercial, and that gross pervert’s balls, but I TOTALLY STAND BY THOSE POSTS.” Essentially, I write as if discovery is an inevitability, while simultaneously hoping that I’m wrong. The one thing I can control is the people with whom I share my real name. And so that's what I do.

I’ve read a number of statements elsewhere which essentially posit that bloggers who use pseudonyms online are…well, cowardly, and that full credence should not be granted to their writing and comments, as there isn’t a real person standing behind them, so to speak. And while I’d concede that point in instances where the person is hiding behind an anonymous name for the express purpose of acting like a flaming douchebag, I feel strongly that this broad brushstroke approach (i.e., “pseudonym=bad”) cannot be applied to ALL cases where bloggers choose anonymity. I’d like to think that you all don’t deduct “points” from my writing, simply because you don’t see my real name up there on the banner, but if you do, I have no choice but to shrug my shoulders, and keep doing what I have been doing. I've made a decision that I feel works for me, and with which I'm comfortable.

And so, if you came to this page searching for my real name, take a step back, and ask yourself –REALLY, ask yourself--why you’re looking for information I clearly intended to keep private. Then once you’ve done so, consider, say, emailing me, or something. Or asking me a question. That’s a good start to developing a relationship, one where you’ll likely learn my name over time. But please, stop looking for “Metalia real name,” or the real name of ANY blogger who has specifically chosen to keep it to his/herself. As I hope I’ve demonstrated, I do have my reasons, and while I’d love to be more open, my career and basic privacy (on account of my uncommon names) take precedence over the preferences of those who’d simply like to know my identity.

(I hope that isn't too harsh, and again, that wasn't directed towards the vast majority of you. But! If you did read it, I thank you once again, and welcome your thoughts and opinions on the matter.)

The Space Between: My BlogHer Recap, As Told to Balki Bartokomous

I'm sure that by now many of you have read through umpteen BlogHer posts about the conference itself and the amazing women, and the experience of it all, and blah di blah.

And it's NOT that I'm discounting that, at all, because the conference was great, as were the attendees, and the experience, and blah di blah, but like I said, there are plenty of people who've already written about that. And really, what could I personally add to the discussion, other than putting the whole thing to song, specifically, "We Didn't Start the Fire?" (Sample lyric: "Keynote speakers, unicorn cake, barf in hallways, swag debates, pretty ladies, camera flashes, CheeseburgHer haaaaats.")

(Like Elton John, my gift is my song, people.)

ANYway, as is apparently my habit when I visit Chicago, I shall tell you all about my experience in the form of a fake Q&A session with everyone's favorite Chicago son, Balki Bartokomous!

Hallo, Metalia! Let's start at the beginning. How was your flight? I know you dislike flying.

Actually, Balki, it was great! It's amazing how much SHORTER the same flight can feel when you're not accompanied by a one-year-old and a three-year-old. Both of whom, you know, happen to belong to you. Of course, despite the smooth flight, I still felt compelled to perform my patented Plane Moves, such as Meaningful Takeoff Prayers, Follow-Up Discussions with Self About the Safety of Air Travel, and of course, Deep Breathing Whilst Gripping Armrest.

They--along with my classic habit, Remaining Conscious So As To Singlehandedly Keep Plane Aloft, You're WELCOME, Fellow Passengers--were obviously the reasons for my safe departure and return.

I came to America on the back of a wagon with a goat in it, you know. And then a boat. I had this adorable sign that read--

This isn't ABOUT you, Bartokomous. Make with the next question.

FINE. [Grumbles something in his native tongue.] How were your roommates?

Oh, Balki. They were great. The only one I hadn't met before was Slynnro. I briefly had my doubts about her...



...but that soon dissipated, and I felt comfortable enough to steal her Chocolate Chex (yum), discuss our respective chestal regions, and perform a Chicago-style impromptu song and dance routine for her and Ali about a Hanes t-shirt bag. There were high kicks involved, is what I'm saying, and maybe a moderate amount of strutting. I don't do that for just anyone.



I understand you saying that you danced, but I do not understand what you mean by this t-shirt bag? In my country, people wear shirts. They do not turn them into bags!

Welcome to America, pal.



(Thank you, Tutugirl, for the picture!)

Although I have to say, I'm truly just as confused as you were. Hence my song and dance for Ali and Slynnro.

America is crazy!

That's not in the form of a question, Balki, but I'll allow it so I can agree, and say that that's why it's so strange that aforementioned roommate Ali is (temporarily) moving to America THIS WEEK. NOT that I'm complaining, mind you, for I love her to pieces. She's my pop culture/humor twin, and she and I share the strange and unspoken bond that comes from attending umpteen years of Jewish day school.



(And hey! There's Casey! Who is--without question--one of my most favorite people, online or off, and does one HELL of a...Casey? What is this costume? Mad Men? Pleasantville? What?)

Isn't my adopted hometown of Chicago lovely?

It IS, Balki! And that's why I was incredibly fortunate to have my third roommate, Kristin (who lives there) as our guide. She (and her adorable accent) led us around, taking me, Darcey, and Ali to lunch at an 80's-themed restaurant. (Which, to quote Barney Stinson: "I never knew it until now, but I always dreamed of that.") We also got pedicures together, where we, separated by cruel fate--and, you know, pedicure chairs--resorted to texting each other from inches away.



We also hopped over to see the hair makeover of the lovely Loralee, one of the friends I "knew" from her blog, but hadn't yet met. I know I'm sounding repetitive here, but: love her. LOVE HER. See?



It was there that I also officially became Heather B.'s Staff Photographer.



That sounds like fun. Apropos of nothing, you don't seem to strike me as a person who'd steal.

Oh, Balki, you are sadly mistaken. While attending the Ragu-sponsored lunch at BlogHer, I...I...look, I have no idea how this happened, but I apparently went into a fugue state and absconded with (SHOUT OUT TO MEME) some cutlery wrapped in a linen napkin. I found it in my bag later in the day.

(Picture stolen from Ali)

Sorry, Ragu! I returned it later. Please don't come after me! I love your sauce! I love your sauce! I hate stealing! It's bad!

Metalia, speaking of things you despise, can you do your oft-discussed American Apparel ad impression?

Sure!

That is spot-on.

Oh, I know Balki. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would be if I could have somehow acquired these American Apparel high-waisted acid washed hot pink shorts.

What the--THOSE ARE MY JOGGING SHORTS!

Okay, you know what Balki? Some things are better left unsaid. Continue with your questions!

How were the parties?

Amazing! Sparklecorn was the highlight...







...and I was also thrilled and honored to attend a few other events:







...as well as the opportunity to have lunch with the sweet and gorgeous Whoorl family. Sarah once referred to me as her "internet soul sister," and I daresay it's true.

I wish I could have been there! Alas, my cousin Larry and I got into a situation involving all manner of wacky shenanigans. Speaking of shenanigans, did you attend the famed CheeseburgHer Party?

Indeed, Balki. Indeed. And don't worry, God! I did not even TOUCH a cheeseburger. However, here are a few of my favorites:

(Picture credit: Yvonne, CheeseburgHer Mastermind Extraordinaire, lover of mongerie, and dear friend.)

(Picture credit: Ali again. Whose face is COMPLETELY OBSCURED by a McDonald's bag, which cracks me up to no end.)

The "afterparty" if you will, consisted of me, Ali, Slynnro and (drunk, HILARIOUSLY drunk) Angella, (yet another person I've "known" and loved for ages, despite never having met) sprawled across the bed in the Presidential Suite (the site of CheeseburgHer), talking about everything and nothing until the wee hours, laughing until our faces hurt.

And for me, that's what I care about when it comes to BlogHer. Yes, the conference is great, but it's these little moments I've shared-- the 2 AM chats with old and new friends, the spontaneous dance parties (um, of one), the non-stop laughing--these things that are the space between The Big Events that truly made the weekend, for me.

Awww. Do you have any regrets?

Yes. That that damn Ali never taught me the full "Thriller" Dance. I'M STILL WAITING, MARTELL.

I Really Have No Words For This

Perhaps you may recall how, a few short weeks ago, I shared with you all one of my greatest local treasures. I refer, of course, to the gift of Fernando the Party Planner. We all had some good times, didn't we? We marveled at the wonder that is this commercial, and some of us may even have spoken grandly of plans to make a trip out to visit the liquor store that Fernando represents, in the hopes of seeing him in action. Oh, how we laughed!

WELL.

I was checking my email earlier today, and noticed I had a new Flickr comment on the Fernando video. IT WAS FROM FERNANDO.

No, stop it. Come back! I'm serious.

As you can see here, and here, the actor playing Fernando is quite flattered by our (fine, MY) undying love of what is clearly THE BEST COMMERCIAL EVER. I, in turn, am beside myself with excitement and laughter that, hi, Fernando totally watched my Flickr video. AND THEN COMMENTED ON IT. He left his Facebook/Twitter info in one of his comments, so obviously, I'm now following him. You should, too. Because, dude. It's FERNANDO. And oh my god, he apparently has other characters that we haven't even SEEN yet, if he is to be believed.

I swear this is true, though yes, if you're naturally suspicious, I suppose this could all seem too weird to be true, and might just be the GREATEST VIRAL MARKETING SCHEME THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN...but if so, someone should just hire me for my skills, because clearly, I'm a genius at, you know, the viral marketing.

Anyway, the upshot of all of this is that I do believe I'm starting a Fernando fan club. Who's in?

And while we're on the subject of commercials, there's another one that warrants discussion. (You'd think the aforementioned tale would make me think twice before writing about commercials again, but apparently, I like to live dangerously.)

I recently mentioned on Twitter that I was more than a little bothered by the Olive Garden's recent commercial where the mom is all, "When Dad's allegedly working late, but more than likely shtupping his secretary, I like to take my adolescent son out for a dinner at the Olive Garden where I ask him all manner of annoying questions about his girlfriend! P.S. I apparently possess no concept of personal space!"

I'm paraphrasing, yes, but only slightly. Every time I saw this commercial it annoyed me, because really, what teenage boy reacts this favorably to his mom's overbearing ministrations? FAKE, FAKE, FAKE. Hell, I remember a time in my own adolescence where a simple "how was your day, honey?" from my (lovely, kind) parents would set me off, shrieking "YOU DON'T OWN MY LIIIIIIIIIFE!!" and stomping up the stairs in my Doc Martens, or some other equally proportionate response. God forbid they asked me to accompany them to a restaurant. In public, those assholes.

The other day, I happened to have muted the TV for some reason, and the stupid Olive Garden commercial came on. Immediately, it hit me: As much as the commercial is annoying on its own, it becomes downright DISTURBING when you watch it on mute, as it appears that the mom is totally, TOTALLY hitting on the teenage boy. OBSERVE:



I rest my case. Naturally, I found the whole thing too horrifying for words, and instead--as you can see--made up what is essentially a fanfic revolving around Gertie the irrepressible divorcee, and Tad, the headstrong young man who catches her eye. As you do.

This is why you should make it a point never to travel with me, ever.

As I may have mentioned once or twice or seventeen times in the past, I’m a bit of a nervous flyer. I tend to throw myself into the details of planning, METICULOUS planning, for whatever trip it is that’s necessitating said flight, in the hopes that I distract myself from the whole…you know, FLIGHT THING. I make packing lists—even if I’m only going to be gone for a few days—organizing myself and my bags in an OCD fashion that would make even Howard Hughes envious.

As such, I suppose it was a bit ironic that I found myself sprinting through the airport on Sunday like a crazy person, attempting to make my flight. (I was headed to DC for a business trip.) I had told my driver to take me to the Delta terminal, and so he did. I waited on the security line, and cursed myself upon realizing that despite all my planning, I’d made the mistake of forgetting socks, which would mean my precious tootsies would touch the floor of LaGuardia airport when I took off my shoes for security. And speaking of those assholes, I passed through not one but two security checkpoints, and it was only once I was PUTTING MY SHOES BACK ON that I was informed that I was in the wrong terminal. I was in the main Delta one, when in fact I was supposed to be in the Delta SHUTTLE terminal. Which, as it turned out, was a 10-minute bus ride away. On a bus that apparently came every 5-15 minutes. It was at that point 6 on the dot, and my flight was at 6:30.

(Oh, and I was told that I'd have to go through security again once I made it there, which, yes, while I understand WHY, it did mean my bare feet had just been on the floor of La Guardia airport for no reason. I mean, really, I might as well have licked a toilet. Or at least dipped my feet in one.)

Have you ever had to sit on a shuttle bus taking you to a flight for which you are running incredibly late? If you have, then you already know what I learned on Sunday: It turns you into a douchebag of Spencer Pratt-like proportions, just exhibiting incredibly sociopathic behavior, the likes of which you didn’t know you personally possessed. An elderly man was boarding the bus and he had a cane –a CANE for the love of God—and as he gingerly made his way up the steps, all I could think was—I swear-- IF I TELL YOU I HAVE A BUTTERSCOTCH, WILL IT MAKE YOU MOVE ANY FASTER? HAUL ASS, GRAMPS. Who am I? is WRONG with me?

Of course, once I arrived at my the elusive Delta Shuttle Terminal (at 6:18!), I still needed to get through security (FEET. ON THE FLOOR. AGAIN. BARF.), and sprint towards the gate. Have you ever had to run for a flight? I mean really run, arms flailing, inwardly praying that you don’t mow down any small children or say, helper monkeys in the process with your rolling bag, but kind of not caring if you do? Sweating profusely, lungs bursting? Breathing like that sexual deviant in the old Caller ID commercials where the lady is all “Oh, but I see your name and numbah, Albert Pervertsen!” or whatever? It’s…not the best.

Happily, though, I made it to the plane in time, germ-ridden feet and all. And luckily it was a pretty empty flight so I had my own row, in which to fan myself, apply Purell to my feet, and secretly reapply deodorant. It’s not that I wouldn’t have done those things if I was wedged in the window seat next to someone, but I wouldn’t have been HAPPY about it, is what I’m saying.

Oh! And in other good news, while I was in town, I had dinner with these lovely ladies. Cheese was obviously involved, as was incessant laughter. Always good things:



(Full set here.)

Oh! OH! I can’t believe I forgot about this. YOU GUYS. Some alert and thoughtful readers have informed me that MeMe is back on the scene! And she’s getting her ass handed to her by…some British anchor on Fox News! I daresay it’s more delicious than a pile of stolen sprinkles and syrups.

It's good I'm not prone to hyperbole, or anything.

I love our neighborhood for many reasons, but one thing that I absolutely adore is the abundance of local commercials on television. I don't know if this is a regional thing, but what I'm referring to is these ads of wretched quality that look as though they were shot on a budget of twelve dollars with a video camera from 1992. The local commercial I am about to show you is...well, by FAR the "best" (i.e., most hilariously awful) of the bunch.

Much like the Pale-Headed Brush Finch of Ecuador, however, the commercial is very rare indeed. When I'm lucky enough to catch it, it's never in its entirety, and it's nowhere to be found online. BELIEVE ME, I HAVE TRIED TO FIND IT, and publicly lamented the fact that I had failed.



Until now, people. UNTIL NOW. Fortuitously, I had my Flip out because I was working on something for a friend, and was juuuuust shutting it down when I caught an airing of the commercial. I hit pause, snatched the video camera back up, and finally, FINALLY captured the most amazing thing to ever hit the airwaves 'round these parts. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.



(DO you also have godawful local commercials? Links, people. I NEED LINKS!)

This one goes out to anyone who was ever punished as a teenager. Or says "haha" a lot. Or compares themselves to a rubber band.

Yvonne is, quite frankly, one of my very favorite people that I've met since I began blogging. We became fast friends a few years ago, after we bonded over the term "mongerie," a made-up word I ascribed to the lacy garb favored by Precious the Monkey on the soap opera, Passions. And while that may very well be the most nonsensical sentence I've ever typed, the point is this: I love Y (and can't wait to see her in just a few weeks).



We were recently IM'ing and in so doing, took a trip down memory lane, with a detour at "OMFG MY PARENTS ARE PUNISHING ME, WHYYYYY GOD?" Road. Join us, why don't you? We can't be the only ones who did stuff like this:

Yvonne: haha!!! we're chatting AND texting; it's like we're 15!

me: MOM STOP PICKING UP THE PHONE

Yvonne: HHAHAHHAHA. Do you know how many times I got busted from my mom picking up the phone and finding out stuff?

me: ME TOO!

Yvonne: that's how I got busted for smoking at a neighbor's house.

me: Hahahaaa

Yvonne: because I was telling my friend “when I go to Diane's we... you know... starts with an ‘s’.” And my mom was on the phone and I got BUUUSSTED.

me: *click * I HEAR YOU, MOM!!

Yvonne: I heard her hang up right after I said "not have SEX. SMOKE." And I felt like I couldn't breathe. Because I KNEW.

me: oh, lordy. that's the worst

Yvonne: totally

me: the moment b/w being found out and KNOWING you're gonna be punished. torture!

Yvonne: yes! I would turn white and sweat.

me: also: some nervous farting (just me?)

Yvonne: ahahdsah no, not just you

me: (whew!)

Yvonne: also trying to act REALLY SWEET AND NICE when you finally see your parents. Like "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. I loooooooooooove youuuuuu."

me: "want me to cook dinnerrrrr?”

Yvonne: just kind of feeling them out, thinking maybe you won't be in trouble after all. "can I clean the house for you?"

me: haha. YES EXACTLY

Yvonne: "because I LOVE YOU"

me: "do you need a back rub? peeled grapes? someone to fan you with palm fronds?"

Yvonne: hahahahha. you totally know. And sometimes they'd let you go all day

me: oh, yes, for sure.

Yvonne: and you thought you had gotten away with it

me: the TORTURE

Yvonne: hah!!!!

me: I am cracking up remembering. and then I'd flounce off to my room and write in my journal. and possibly do a little poetry

Yvonne: hahahah. yes!!!

me: my poetry was the WORST EVER

Yvonne: I'd get on my knees and promise Jesus to NEVER DO IT AGAIN

me: oh! also! That reminds me…I forgot. I'd pray that they wouldn't punish me; if they were pulling that "dragging out the suspense" shit.

Yvonne: hahaa

me: "I'm sorry, God. Please don't let them punish me for hanging out with The Boys Who Smoke. I'll remember to say my blessings before meals."

Yvonne: I would totally do that!!

me: pray? or SAY you'd pray? oh god: also, I'd say things like this. I SWEAR: "Mom and Dad? I am like a RUBBER BAND. The harder you pull me in one direction, the harder I will FLY BACK THE OTHER WAY" (I swear, I said that)

Yvonne: ahhahahahlhaslkahahaha THAT'S THE BEST ONE EVER

me: like, who was I? A Real World character?

Yvonne: I was too scared of burning in hell, or, the "Rod" to say stuff like that. but oh my god, I can't stop laughing

me: A RUBBER BAND.

Oh, Bollocks.

Yesterday started off like any other. Around mid-morning, however, the day became exceptionally amazing, in that J surprised me with a ticket to Chicago, for BlogHer. I hadn’t been planning on going this year for a number of reasons, but I was so touched, and things fell so rapidly—and miraculously—into place immediately thereafter that I pretty much had no choice but so accept my husband’s amazing gift. So, yeah. I’ll be there. (Come say hi, okay?)

I was annoyingly gleeful on account of this turn of events, and all but skipped my way uptown after work, stopping off to pick up some fabric…notions (?) for the dress I’m having made for my brother’s wedding. And as fun and incredible as the morning was, here’s where the day takes a turn for the worse. And by “worse” I mean “scrotum-filled.”

I was on the subway, and was writing an email to Miss Whoorl. The subway, you see, is where I do much of my email correspondence, as it makes me look extremely busy, and thus acts as a deterrent towards the advances of hobos or the ubiquitous breakdancing panhandler children. I was able to snag a seat, but the train quickly grew crowded, and a gentleman took a spot standing in front of me. The train emptied out, and I became dimly aware that there were plenty of seats, and yet the man was still standing in front of me. "How curious," I thought, and went back to concentrating on my email. The train hit a bump, and I, startled, glanced up from my email to find myself eye-to-ball with THE MAN’S JUNK. He was wearing a long windbreaker, but the sudden movement of the train caused it to temporarily drift, thus exposing his open fly. And, you know, balls. I sent the email off, and hurriedly began a frantic one to my husband:



However, lest he think that I was making a big deal over nothing, I took a picture to better illustrate my plight. And YES, I realize that sort of makes me totally gross, too, but I took it from a side angle so you couldn't REALLY see the horror with which I was, again, eye-to-ball, AND I did cover up the Offending Area.



(Like my little caption balloon? I HIGHLY recommend the Photogene app.)

I was shocked. Speechless. I was...well, the email, I think, really shows you the full range of emotions with which I was grappling. Was this a total error? Was this completely intentional? I was frozen with indecision as to what I should say or do.

Well.

See how the right side of his windbreaker is really much longer than the left? Yeah. It was then I noticed that he was...um, touching hisself, through the pocket of the windbreaker.

I looked around the totally silent train, and, filled with rage--and also, nausea--said the lovely words no one ever really thinks they'll need to say to another person in public:

"EXCUSE ME. SIR, CAN YOU PLEASE STOP J*RKING OFF IN FRONT OF MY FACE?"

The funny thing is, he was totally unaffected. I mean, the ENTIRE train car looked at him with a mixture of shock and disgust, and he DIDN'T EVEN ZIP UP. He took a few steps away from me, and just kind of looked heavenward, like I was talking to some OTHER publicly m@sturbating pervert, or something.

It being New York, no one really wanted to deal with him, myself included, so I just tried to get a picture of his face to send to the NYPD (they have a task force for this kind of thing). It's a blurry profile shot, but I don't really care, I just want as many people to see him as possible:



People, I am FILLED with questions. I mean, aside from the big one--why did I call a pervert "sir"?--I am kind of curious about the act in general. It takes--pardon the pun--a lot of balls to do something like this. How did he decide to go through with it? At what point does your life become so sad that you wake up one morning and think "You know what? I think I'm gonna just go for it today, and start m@sturbating on the subway. Let's see where it goes." Do you think people won't notice? Or do you WANT them to notice? Are you planning on FINISHING THE JOB THERE? OH DEAR GOD.

Frankly, the whole thing is both horrifying and exhausting to think about, and as such, I'm just going to turn things over to Andy & Co., while I shower for the 758th time.