Our new-to-us apartment comes with an actually-new oven. This thrilled me, because I have a little thing about really old ovens (which this apartment had, when we first checked it out). In truth, it's not really a little thing, so much as it is a crippling fear that an older oven will --due to its aged state -- silently leak deathly gas, suffer from blown-out pilot lights, and/or create an epic fireball in which we all shall perish.
This is likely a direct consequence of what actually repeatedly happened with the oven in our old apartment (minus epic fireball). It was a scary, unpredictable time, a time when I was so overjoyed to get a new oven that I wrote an entire song about bidding the old one adieu (to the tune of James Blunt's "Goodbye, My Lover,") as early readers of this blog may recall. (Excerpt: "How you disappoint me, you let me down/Your pilot light went out, and my cake didn’t brown/Goodbye my oven, You’re not my friend/Pilot light blew out… Nearly were the death of me.")
Naturally, I sat down to read the manual, so as to avoid any potential oven-related conflagration, and while most of it was helpful, the Q & A page was ...something. What follows are actual, direct questions from the list. I've responded with my own answers in place of theirs, because really, do you want to hear about flex-line gas hookup? No, you do not. No one does.
Why does the food slide to one side of the cookware?
The obvious answer is a leveling issue and/or gravity, but that's just what the true culprit -- a poltergeist -- wants you to think. It's all about keeping one step ahead of those wily bastards. Or so I've been led to believe from the 4-7 seconds of the Paranormal Activity trailer I could stand to watch before shrieking and frantically turning to Nick Jr. to soothe my frazzled nerves. Basically, I think you need to do something with a demonologist, and maybe a video camera? And also not taunting It? I'm sure it'll work out.
When I used my oven for the first time there was an odor and some smoking?
First of all, that's not an actual question, but neither here nor there, what you're describing doesn't sound like an oven, so much as a bunch of teenage boys. Are there teenage boys in your kitchen? Yes? Lecture them about lung cancer, proper use of deodorant andeschewing Axe body spray. Then get them some Sunny D. Not the purple stuff, but Sunny D. Allegedly, this will cause them to think you're the coolest. Also those pizza roll things. Cook them in your demon lair/oven.
My range makes noises when I use the oven. Is this normal, or is something wrong?
Okay, don't panic, but it seriously, seriously sounds like Zuul is up in there. Hightail it out of there, and do NOT under any circumstances identify yourself as The Keymaster.
My oven smokes excessively while broiling?
Cooking is stressful, and stress manifests itself differently. Drinking, drugs...perhaps a smoking habit, as we see here. We can only assume no one was around to put it on the proper path in its youth with a stern talking-to and some Sunny D, you know?
My oven temperature doesn't seem right?
Again, I'm not entirely convinced that you understand the concept of a question. I really --waaaait a second; OMFG. Is this a side effect of demonic possession? Loss of basic grammar skills? I DO NOT POSSESS A CROSS BUT SO HELP ME, DEMON, I WILL MAKE ONE OUT OF POPSICLE STICKS. JUST DON'T COME AT ME UNTIL I EAT THE POPSICLES.
If you'll excuse me, I'm off to read my camera manual to see if any similar such ridiculous questions reside therein.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
To Do: Rock the Mic Like a Vandal
Occasionally, there are moments in life where you're faced with something so insanely far outside your comfort zone, but also so amazing that you kinda just have to go along with it, and say, "Sure! What's the worst that could happen?"
Well, in this case, the worst that can happen is that I will simultaneously shame and soil myself in public, but I'm trying really hard not think about that.
I was selected as one of BlogHer's Voices of the Year -- in the Humor category -- which means that I (along with my two fellow finalists, these intimidatingly hilarious ladies) will be reading my nominated post (thanks, Ali!) at the conference's Community Keynote next week. I am thrilled, but also VERY NERVOUS. For reasons that should be obvious (I only got a B+ in Public Speaking in college! B+!), but also because I'm afraid that my being labeled as a humor finalist may create certain expectations.
For instance, I fear that people might come over to me and be all, "Humor finalist, eh? MAKE ME LAUGH! NOW!" because that is totally an actual thing that people do in real life. For some reason, I imagine that everyone who will do this will look like Harold Zidler from Moulin Rouge. Yes, even the ladies. I don't know. And somehow they'll have whips, or whatever, and then I will feel compelled to do SOMEthing, but then uncontrollably projectile vomit on them, because I get nervous under pressure, particularly when I'm already preoccupied with thoughts of impending public speaking.
At this point, I'm considering investing in a squirting lapel flower or spinning bowtie, so I can at least have a humor gimmick, you know? "Well, she did nervously stare at me for 12 seconds, and then throw up on my carefully-selected Anthropologie skirt, but she DID have that spinning bowtie. Well played, humor finalist Metalia. Well played," they'll all say.
Make no mistake, I'm petrified, excited, and honored, and am practicing my post daily, annoying every living thing around me (and possibly my mirrors) with my repeat performances. If you're coming to BlogHer, I hope you'll come to the Keynote. The speaker lineup is amazing, and I promise to do my very best not to hurl onstage. If I do, though, I will totally cover the cost of dry cleaning for the front row. Swearsies.
Well, in this case, the worst that can happen is that I will simultaneously shame and soil myself in public, but I'm trying really hard not think about that.
I was selected as one of BlogHer's Voices of the Year -- in the Humor category -- which means that I (along with my two fellow finalists, these intimidatingly hilarious ladies) will be reading my nominated post (thanks, Ali!) at the conference's Community Keynote next week. I am thrilled, but also VERY NERVOUS. For reasons that should be obvious (I only got a B+ in Public Speaking in college! B+!), but also because I'm afraid that my being labeled as a humor finalist may create certain expectations.
For instance, I fear that people might come over to me and be all, "Humor finalist, eh? MAKE ME LAUGH! NOW!" because that is totally an actual thing that people do in real life. For some reason, I imagine that everyone who will do this will look like Harold Zidler from Moulin Rouge. Yes, even the ladies. I don't know. And somehow they'll have whips, or whatever, and then I will feel compelled to do SOMEthing, but then uncontrollably projectile vomit on them, because I get nervous under pressure, particularly when I'm already preoccupied with thoughts of impending public speaking.
At this point, I'm considering investing in a squirting lapel flower or spinning bowtie, so I can at least have a humor gimmick, you know? "Well, she did nervously stare at me for 12 seconds, and then throw up on my carefully-selected Anthropologie skirt, but she DID have that spinning bowtie. Well played, humor finalist Metalia. Well played," they'll all say.
Make no mistake, I'm petrified, excited, and honored, and am practicing my post daily, annoying every living thing around me (and possibly my mirrors) with my repeat performances. If you're coming to BlogHer, I hope you'll come to the Keynote. The speaker lineup is amazing, and I promise to do my very best not to hurl onstage. If I do, though, I will totally cover the cost of dry cleaning for the front row. Swearsies.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Ain't No Potty Like A--Oh, Forget It.
We move on Thursday. And before you go frantically clicking the "back" button, all, ENOUGH WITH THE MOVING, LADY, MY GOD, I mention this only to give you some context. Specifically, some context into the fact that my two-year-old decided that now -- NOWNOWNOW -- would be the optimal time for her to toilet train herself.
In hindsight, I should have picked up on the fact that Lo would pull something like this, given that her behavior of late is akin to Lindsay Lohan's, circa 2007. (Or always.) She recently figured out how to stealthily remove her diaper, and then not-so-stealthily streak down the hallway, pantsless, shrieking "look at MEEEEEEEE" before careening into any number of large (plastic toy) cars. On the bright side, she is not ornery or -- to my knowledge -- drunk.
This carries over into the night, as well, in that she's been taking off her diaper once she's already in her crib, allegedly settling in for the evening. If we're lucky, she'll crow "I did it!" which tends to tip us off that it's time to go retrieve said diaper. From the hallway floor, since she tosses it outside the room, if she can. If we're not, we'll find ourselves tripping over a diaper when we go in to check on the kids before we go to sleep. I fully believe she is taunting us.
With this background, it should come as no surprise that she decided to toilet train herself earlier this week. Because: of course. I had NOTHING to do with this, I swear. It's not like I made her sit there on some naturally-sourced, hand-hewn olivewood potty, while I sat strumming my (as-yet-nonexistent) guitar, and practicing her Latin flashcards. This was all her, and while the timing could not be worse...
...I think it's pretty cool that she had the drive to try to do it on her own. And a good thing, too, because Google has not been entirely helpful to me, here:
Did I mention that the new place has just been almost fully carpeted? Pray for us, you guys. And our security deposit.
In hindsight, I should have picked up on the fact that Lo would pull something like this, given that her behavior of late is akin to Lindsay Lohan's, circa 2007. (Or always.) She recently figured out how to stealthily remove her diaper, and then not-so-stealthily streak down the hallway, pantsless, shrieking "look at MEEEEEEEE" before careening into any number of large (plastic toy) cars. On the bright side, she is not ornery or -- to my knowledge -- drunk.
This carries over into the night, as well, in that she's been taking off her diaper once she's already in her crib, allegedly settling in for the evening. If we're lucky, she'll crow "I did it!" which tends to tip us off that it's time to go retrieve said diaper. From the hallway floor, since she tosses it outside the room, if she can. If we're not, we'll find ourselves tripping over a diaper when we go in to check on the kids before we go to sleep. I fully believe she is taunting us.
With this background, it should come as no surprise that she decided to toilet train herself earlier this week. Because: of course. I had NOTHING to do with this, I swear. It's not like I made her sit there on some naturally-sourced, hand-hewn olivewood potty, while I sat strumming my (as-yet-nonexistent) guitar, and practicing her Latin flashcards. This was all her, and while the timing could not be worse...
Did I mention that the new place has just been almost fully carpeted? Pray for us, you guys. And our security deposit.
Monday, July 12, 2010
So I have a "relocation specialist" now. That is a thing, apparently.
A few months back, I mentioned that we were entrenched in the delightful and not-at-all-maddening process of selling our apartment. We had purchased our current place back in 2005, before we had kids, and I remember moving in, and thinking, "My god, this place is HUGE! We can use the living room as a squash court! WE CAN LIVE HERE FOREVER! AND ALSO LEARN TO PLAY SQUASH, WHILE WE ARE AT IT." Fast forward a whole mess of years and two kids later,and the formerly-palatial apartment is feeling more refrigerator box-sized by the day. It's time to move on; not far, but just to a place where I do not need to constantly come up with new and creative ways to store all my extra Costco toilet paper. Conveniently enough, we found a great, bigger place right around the corner. A true dining room! A porch! TWO closets in the kids' room! Huzzah!
We found buyers for our place -- which is what set this all in motion -- and the thing is, once things started moving, they Really Moved Quickly, such that everything was settled on Friday, and after discussions earlier today, it appears we're closing/moving next week. OMG. I shouldn't even be writing this; I should be, like, piling our books together, or extricating the toilet paper rolls from their many, many hiding places. But it happened so fast that I'm kind of just doing the slow, quiet freakout.
The one thing I have done (since this all came together EARLIER TODAY) was call movers to come in for an estimate. They told me they'd be sending a "relocation specialist" to our place later this week. A RELOCATION SPECIALIST. This made me feel like I was: (a) in the Witness Protection Program; (b) on a House Hunters-type show; (c) possibly joining a cult; and (d) on a House Hunters-type show about people in the Witness Protection Program wherein said witnesses are relocated to the perfect cult compound for them. It's probably called something like House Hunters WPP: Drinkin' the Kool Aid. You know, if it actually existed.
...
...
...
Obviously, I have been sitting here for the past 10 minutes trying to think of a suitable name for my fake show. Again, this is instead of packing. For our move taking place in about a week. WE ARE DOOMED.
Tell me: How do you pack with kids around? Is there a method to the madness? Should I clean out first, or just move everything, and then deal with it in the new place? Despite however organized I feel like we may be, there is just so much STUFF. Guide me, o wise ones!
We found buyers for our place -- which is what set this all in motion -- and the thing is, once things started moving, they Really Moved Quickly, such that everything was settled on Friday, and after discussions earlier today, it appears we're closing/moving next week. OMG. I shouldn't even be writing this; I should be, like, piling our books together, or extricating the toilet paper rolls from their many, many hiding places. But it happened so fast that I'm kind of just doing the slow, quiet freakout.
The one thing I have done (since this all came together EARLIER TODAY) was call movers to come in for an estimate. They told me they'd be sending a "relocation specialist" to our place later this week. A RELOCATION SPECIALIST. This made me feel like I was: (a) in the Witness Protection Program; (b) on a House Hunters-type show; (c) possibly joining a cult; and (d) on a House Hunters-type show about people in the Witness Protection Program wherein said witnesses are relocated to the perfect cult compound for them. It's probably called something like House Hunters WPP: Drinkin' the Kool Aid. You know, if it actually existed.
...
...
...
Obviously, I have been sitting here for the past 10 minutes trying to think of a suitable name for my fake show. Again, this is instead of packing. For our move taking place in about a week. WE ARE DOOMED.
Tell me: How do you pack with kids around? Is there a method to the madness? Should I clean out first, or just move everything, and then deal with it in the new place? Despite however organized I feel like we may be, there is just so much STUFF. Guide me, o wise ones!
Monday, July 5, 2010
An Open Letter to the Person Who Most Definitely Purposely Stole My Flip Flops (Updated)
This weekend was full of typical Independence Day stuff -- parades, family togetherness, and alarming consumption of barbecue. J and I saw Eclipse, and although I usually like to rap about Twilight, I worry that might be overkill, in light of last week's rap-centric post (about The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, but still). My feelings can be summed up like so:
Instead, I need to talk to you about something that happened today. We -- along with some friends -- took our kids to a (relatively) nearby kids' water park that I did NOT know existed until basically a day ago. (Hooray for having friends who are Planners and Doers and Arrangers of Fun Activities!) The park was great --clean, well-organized, rides for a huge age range of kids, and the lines were minimal. The kids had an amazing time, and we cannot wait to go back. THAT BEING SAID:
Dear Sir or Madam:
Let's not mince words here: you stole my flip-flops, on a HUNDRED-DEGREE DAY, from the lazy river ride at a children's water park. Adding insult to injury, you left your (same sized but CLEARLY DISSIMILAR) fugly plastic Walmart flip-flops in the precise spot where my black and silver Havaianas used to reside. Were you trying to be...nice? Because that just makes me hate you MORE, as it shows that you rationalized the switch by thinking, "it's okay that I'm taking her shoes, because she'll have my shoes." Don't try to protest; I read Silence of the Lambs, and repeatedly watched Primal Fear in high school, so I THINK I know a little something about the complex inner workings of the human mind, you know?
Also, big fat thanks for making me and my husband nearly (well, not really, but NEITHER HERE NOR THERE) get divorced in the middle of the water park. He's SO NICE, you see, and kept insisting that the switch had to have been an accident. And I'm irritated by the whole situation, so I'm all, I AM BASICALLY WALKING ON HOT COALS RIGHT NOW, STOP IT WITH YOUR MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS CRAP, J. And then poor judgment compelled me to wonder aloud if I should go ask the lifeguard if she'd seen anyone absconding with silver/black flip-flops, and...things were said. Things like OH, LET'S PUT OUT AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN and me, countering with DON'T YOU GET THAT THIS IS A TECHNICAL CRIME, and then I think Scotland Yard was invoked -- sarcastically -- and I don't even know, because my feet were aflame, and our children were essentially twin popsicle-propelled blurs.
So then I had to borrow my husband's big-ass flip-flops and literally flip-flop my way back through the park, to the parking lot, to fetch the extra pair I had in the car. (THANK GOD FOR THAT.) Because the walk was so long, I soon realized that the most efficient means of keeping the flip-flops on my feet was to perform a sort of...raised-knee...gait-type thing, that--okay, it was a MARCH, alright? I MARCHED BACK TO MY CAR, MUTTERING TO MYSELF, IN EXCEEDINGLY LARGE AND MASCULINE FLIP-FLOPS. I undoubtedly looked both sane and happy as I walked, let me just tell you. And as much as I wanted to complain to J about my trek upon my return, it's important to bear in mind that during my absence, he was chasing after the aforementioned hyper children, by himself, in a water park, without shoes. So. I had to feel bad about that (even though he continues to believe that the missing shoes were an innocent mistake, and no one could do it on purpose, and people are inherently nice and honest mistakes happen and WHY IS HE BEING MATTHEW McCONAUGHEY ABOUT THIS).
And I want you (AND HIM) to know that when I shared this tale with Ali, she promptly guessed the brand of stolen flip-flops, and told me that her sister -- who has a pair -- had been warned at the beach, because, and I quote, "people are stealing them like nuts." WHO IN THE HELL STEALS OTHER PEOPLE'S FLIP-FLOPS? And what's more, HOW HAS THIS BECOME AN EPIDEMIC? Is that shoe-stealing episode of Sex and the City to blame for this? The recession? The lunar cycle? Karl Rove? WHAT?
In closing, I'm well aware that there are bigger problems in the world, but right now, I am hatiest toward your thieving ass. I can only hope that the stubborn plantar wart that once befell my big toe visits itself upon your feet, tenfold.
xoxo,
Metalia
Tell me: Who do you think is right: me, or J? WE ARE DYING TO KNOW.
UPDATE: Something is up with Blogger's comments; they're coming through via email just fine, but are taking forever to actually show up here. I just wanted you to know I'm not deleting comments for no reason, or whatever. :)
Instead, I need to talk to you about something that happened today. We -- along with some friends -- took our kids to a (relatively) nearby kids' water park that I did NOT know existed until basically a day ago. (Hooray for having friends who are Planners and Doers and Arrangers of Fun Activities!) The park was great --clean, well-organized, rides for a huge age range of kids, and the lines were minimal. The kids had an amazing time, and we cannot wait to go back. THAT BEING SAID:
~An Open Letter to the Person Who Most Definitely Purposely Stole My Flip-Flops~
Dear Sir or Madam:
Let's not mince words here: you stole my flip-flops, on a HUNDRED-DEGREE DAY, from the lazy river ride at a children's water park. Adding insult to injury, you left your (same sized but CLEARLY DISSIMILAR) fugly plastic Walmart flip-flops in the precise spot where my black and silver Havaianas used to reside. Were you trying to be...nice? Because that just makes me hate you MORE, as it shows that you rationalized the switch by thinking, "it's okay that I'm taking her shoes, because she'll have my shoes." Don't try to protest; I read Silence of the Lambs, and repeatedly watched Primal Fear in high school, so I THINK I know a little something about the complex inner workings of the human mind, you know?
Also, big fat thanks for making me and my husband nearly (well, not really, but NEITHER HERE NOR THERE) get divorced in the middle of the water park. He's SO NICE, you see, and kept insisting that the switch had to have been an accident. And I'm irritated by the whole situation, so I'm all, I AM BASICALLY WALKING ON HOT COALS RIGHT NOW, STOP IT WITH YOUR MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS CRAP, J. And then poor judgment compelled me to wonder aloud if I should go ask the lifeguard if she'd seen anyone absconding with silver/black flip-flops, and...things were said. Things like OH, LET'S PUT OUT AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN and me, countering with DON'T YOU GET THAT THIS IS A TECHNICAL CRIME, and then I think Scotland Yard was invoked -- sarcastically -- and I don't even know, because my feet were aflame, and our children were essentially twin popsicle-propelled blurs.
So then I had to borrow my husband's big-ass flip-flops and literally flip-flop my way back through the park, to the parking lot, to fetch the extra pair I had in the car. (THANK GOD FOR THAT.) Because the walk was so long, I soon realized that the most efficient means of keeping the flip-flops on my feet was to perform a sort of...raised-knee...gait-type thing, that--okay, it was a MARCH, alright? I MARCHED BACK TO MY CAR, MUTTERING TO MYSELF, IN EXCEEDINGLY LARGE AND MASCULINE FLIP-FLOPS. I undoubtedly looked both sane and happy as I walked, let me just tell you. And as much as I wanted to complain to J about my trek upon my return, it's important to bear in mind that during my absence, he was chasing after the aforementioned hyper children, by himself, in a water park, without shoes. So. I had to feel bad about that (even though he continues to believe that the missing shoes were an innocent mistake, and no one could do it on purpose, and people are inherently nice and honest mistakes happen and WHY IS HE BEING MATTHEW McCONAUGHEY ABOUT THIS).
And I want you (AND HIM) to know that when I shared this tale with Ali, she promptly guessed the brand of stolen flip-flops, and told me that her sister -- who has a pair -- had been warned at the beach, because, and I quote, "people are stealing them like nuts." WHO IN THE HELL STEALS OTHER PEOPLE'S FLIP-FLOPS? And what's more, HOW HAS THIS BECOME AN EPIDEMIC? Is that shoe-stealing episode of Sex and the City to blame for this? The recession? The lunar cycle? Karl Rove? WHAT?
In closing, I'm well aware that there are bigger problems in the world, but right now, I am hatiest toward your thieving ass. I can only hope that the stubborn plantar wart that once befell my big toe visits itself upon your feet, tenfold.
xoxo,
Metalia
Tell me: Who do you think is right: me, or J? WE ARE DYING TO KNOW.
UPDATE: Something is up with Blogger's comments; they're coming through via email just fine, but are taking forever to actually show up here. I just wanted you to know I'm not deleting comments for no reason, or whatever. :)
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