New York Syndrome, or VIVE LE FLORG!

J and I were walking to our building's front door tonight when we spotted an unshaven scarecrow of a man wearing a dark puffer coat, what appeared to be capri-length sweatpants, and bedroom slippers, striding along from the opposite direction. I gave J a sidelong glance which, in Couple Eye Speak, said "clearly, this man is to be avoided," and J, in turn, responded with a look that said "indeed. We should give him a wide berth. Also, we should make that soup again soon. The one with the root vegetables. It was really good. Did you finish that book you were reading?"

What? We've been together a long time.  You pick up these skills.

We then observed that Florg -- I have dubbed him Florg -- wasn't ambling on down the road to Cray-Craytown, but rather, following us into the building. Splendid! Florg lives here, it seems. The elevator -- for which we were all waiting -- hadn't yet arrived, so I made a quick stop at our mailbox to grab our stuff. As I was LITERALLY INCHES FROM THE ARRIVING ELEVATOR WHOSE DOOR HAD NOT YET OPENED, this happened:

GIRLIE, you guys. It is at this point important to note that: (a) again, the elevator was actively not there yet; (b) I was holding my mail, not reading it, but that's neither here nor there; (c) I am thrilled that I remembered this picture of me existed because it is wholly accurate, in terms of my expression; and (d) J was talking to our doorman, and thus oblivious to my plight. ("Go up without me," he said. "I'll be up in a minute," he said.)

As I stood there, flummoxed, Florg fixed his gaze upon me once more. "Are you coming or what?" he growled at me, as we both stood there. Next to each other. Both waiting for the same elevator. Meanie!

Considering that we live on the third floor, I probably could've just said, "no thanks! I'll walk!" But I have New York Syndrome, which is a totally real, and not-at-all made up thing, wherein I am generally a normal, calm and even-keeled kind of person, but when a stranger in this fair city behaves in a mean and/or untoward manner with me, I turn into an aggressive, Hulk-like  "OH, YOU WANT TO GO? COME ON! LET'S GO!!!" type person. (I've had too many strange pervert dongs pressed against my back on the subway, you guys. Too many! One of those dongs broke this camels back. Or something.)

I defiantly told Florg that yes, I was going to be taking the elevator. Because I like to tempt fate, I told him this with the same snotty, slow, sarcastically patient tone I used to use on my parents when they inquired about the difference between Lugz and Doc Martens.  I got in with him, my head held high. "I certainly showed him!" I proudly told myself, because clearly this was very, very important. I made a big show of looking through my mail.

It was then that I realized I had forgotten to press the button for my floor, and I was stuck in the elevator with Florg until we reached his. I then had to OVER-ACT, like I'd meant to do this, and --oh lord, I don't even know. Stupid karma. I took the elevator back downstairs and J was like, "Oh thank God, I thought he'd kidnapped you."

While I obviously need to spend the rest of my days here avoiding Florg, I am, in one way, relieved. Every apartment building I've ever lived in has at LEAST one known crazy/crotchety person. I hadn't mentioned this, but, well, we hadn't found this building's crazy inhabitant in the few months we've lived here, and I was starting to get nervous. After all, if you can't spot the crazy person in the room, then the crazy person is you.  And so: VIVE LE FLORG!

Fresh Perfume Giveaway: Because I feel like it, that's why.

This post is in no way sponsored. Well, unless you count me as a sponsor.

I've had a thing for Fresh beauty products for a while now. Their Strawberry Flowers perfume is one of my two favorites right now, their mascaras are top-notch, and I am a bit obsessed with their (ridiculously priced) Brown Sugar Body Scrub. I was browsing in Sephora the other day when a new (to me?) perfume from their line caught my eye: Citron de Vigne. I sprayed it on the tester strip, and fell in love. Even better, it came in a convenient rollerball! SOLD. Usually I'd try it out to see how it worked on ME, but I was already wearing my perfume (Strawberry Flowers!), and I was in a rush.

(You see where this is going, right?)

I then brought it home, applied it the next morning, and promptly died.

It may be a lovely scent, but it doesn't work with my skin chemistry, for whatever reason. And obviously, my receipt has disappeared.

(You continue to see where this is going, right?)

My friends, I am hereby giving away a verrrrry barely used Fresh Citron de Vigne rollerball perfume! Valued at $18.50! Perfect stocking stuffer for a friend, or for you!  Yes, you! Here's what it looks like (isn't the package adorable?) The bobby pin is for scale, not, like, still life artistic purposes:

Not scale-y ENOUGH, you say? What's that? You want another picture, possibly involving my thumb, so as to better contextualize the bottle's size? HOKAY:

The scent -- assuming it works for you -- really is lovely and complex. Fresh's website describes it as "champagne-inspired," with a "heart note of pinot accord -- comprised of bergamot, dark almond, musk, white sandalwood and rose -- combined with bubbling citrus top notes and an earthy base."

So, um, let's make up some rules, or something. Given the upcoming holiday, leave a comment between now and Monday, November 29 at 11:59 PM E.S.T., telling me something for which you're thankful. Yes. Let's go with that! It could be anything, really, but no duplicate comments, please. I'll select a winner at random.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You GUYS. I'm Writing a Book.*

Exciting news, everybody!

I'm writing a book.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Metalia, didn't you say you were going to write a book a while ago? Where did I put my car keys? And why didn't anyone tell me how good Hot & Spicy Cheez-Its were? And to all these things, I say, yes, in the pantry, probably, and OMG I KNOW. Am I projecting a bit? Perhaps I am! But I'm just so excited!

I think it was Benjamin Franklin who once said "We know not from whence inspiration comes, only that we must grap it mightily as though with the jaws of a lion when it striketh."

I just made that up, honestly, but it sounds like something he would say, you know? I--well, here, it looks much more official now. You'll see what I mean, I'm sure.

So, the book. Oh, my friends, the WHIRLWHIND! The LIGHTNING CLAP THAT WAS!

There I was, strolling the aisles of my bookstore, attempting to find something new, and it seemed that everywhere I turned, there was another memoir about someone doing SOMEthing for a year. Living biblically for a year! Living like Oprah for a year! Not shopping for a year! Living with subway dwellers for a year! Again, I made that one up, but you just KNOW some hipster right now is all "YES! And I shall call it From PBR to Panhandling for Nickels: My Year with the Mole People."

And like that, my inner book found ME. My friends: I have decided to write a book about spending a year reading books by people who spend a year doing something.

Each of the books, I've realized, follow a similar formula. How hard could it be? OBSERVE:

Step 1: Pick random-ass, deceptively unique-yet-wholly-relatable thing to write about. 


Step 2: Write about how great it is, and how your soul NEEDED this. 

Step 3: Uh oh! Crisis of some sort! Will you finish on schedule? Do you need to? DO you WANT to?  Is it worth [insert sacrifice here]?

Step 4: RALLY, YO! You get it done in in time!

Step 5: Talk about the life lessons you've gained from this yearlong experience.

Obviously, my book about how I spent a year reading books about other people who spent a year doing something and then writing  a book about it is going to be huge, AND also super easy to write. So much so that I'm not really working on the book part right now (it'll basically write itself! I'm sure!) and have instead turned my focus to the cover, since, as we all know, there is inevitably a significant amount of judgment levied upon it.


My first attempt was terrible.

My second attempt was much better, mainly because I stole J's glasses, and ditched the pajamas.

 Perfect.

I'm coming for you, New York Times Best-Seller list!

*Lies!

Bookish

God only knows what I did to deserve this, but both of my kids love books. We read a lot together, and in addition to being heartwarming as hell, it reassures me that those incessant '80s literacy commercials were not in vain. "See, Captain OG Readmore, anthropomorphic puppet cat? I'm still reading! I DIDN'T LET YOU DOWN, GOOD SIR!" is an actual thing I have occasionally thought. And said out loud to my husband. And -- upon seeing his confusion and possible alarm -- sighed, exasperatedly trying to convince him that the good captain was NOT an imaginary friend, but a real (well, cartoon?), reading-obsessed and possibly drunk cat in maritime getup. ("Books were his catnip, J! DON'T YOU SEE?") Very little about the situation made sense, but damned if he wasn't real, is what I'm saying.

I was reading Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus to the kids on Sunday, and my friend -- who was visiting -- gave me a look of surprise. "That is NOT how the pigeon sounds," she said. "My pigeon voice is much more squeaky." I had never really thought about this before; in my mind the pigeon voice just IS, and what it is, it seems, is a Joe Pesci/Gilbert Gottfried hybrid.

I then had a Usual Suspects moment, reeling around at the bookshelf, as it hit me: I have unwittingly assigned extremely specific and distinct celebrity (and "celebrity") voices to the main characters in pretty much every single book I read to my kids: Pinkalicious, for instance, sounds like Snooki, Sam I Am of Green Eggs and Ham fame sounds like Jon Lovitz, and his unnamed counterpart, like Mr. Snuffleupagus. Amelia Bedelia is Carol Kane, in anything. The Caps for Sale peddler is Al Pacino in Scarface. And the little boy in The Giving Tree sounds like whatever an awful, terrible sociopath-in-training sounds like, because that is exactly what he is. (Stop making me read that book, kids! It is the worst!)

I'm fervently hoping this practice is a lot more common than I suspect it to be. Feel free to reassure me. If you need me, I'll be over here, reading The Berenstain Bears, and making Mama Bear sound like Jackée from 227 (a la Jen Haley). And -- if we're being honest -- watching old Captain OG Readmore clips.

Make Your Own Barrettes in Five Easy Steps: I AM THE NEW MARTHA! (I am NOT the new Martha)

I am not terribly crafty.

I mean, I suppose I CAN be, if we’re talking the occasional Machiavelli-lite scheme, but if we’re talking Etsy-type stuff, or anything involving advanced use of sewing implements, I am most definitely not your girl. I ADMIRE those people –deeply — but I do not possess the talent to become one of them.

Once I HAD a little girl, however, I picked up on one useful craft skill out of necessity. She’s blessed with thick, wavy hair that requires a hair accessory of some sort to keep it off her face at all times, lest she careen into the coffee table, blinded by the curls. Or get some sort of sticky food in it literally five minutes after she comes out of the bath. (EVERY! DAMN! TIME!) The first time I went to pick up some cute fabric-covered barrettes from her, I nearly went into sticker shock. EIGHT DOLLARS for one barrette? Like, for serious? Does the barrette do any light housework, or cooking? (Note: I live in New York, so STOP IT RIGHT NOW with your taunts of, like, 12-cent fabric-covered barrettes, wherever you are.) I inspected the barrette up close and realized it could not be simpler to make myself. And so I practiced, and lo! I now possess basically one craft-related skill, which I’d like to share with you:


Step 1: Gather Your Supplies.
To make a barrette, you’ll need five things, all of which are really cheap, and easily found almost anywhere: A glue gun, salon-type hair clips, ribbon (duh), a scissor, and some adhesive-backed velcro (we’ll get to that in a bit).



Step 2: Measure Once -- If That -- And Then Cut Once. That’s How That Saying Goes, Right?

Wrap your barrette with the ribbon to “measure” how much you’ll need to cover it. (Spoiler alert: These clips are generally all the same size, and if you WANT to be all precise about it, just know that you’ll need a smidgen over five inches. See?)

Step 3: Fire up Glue Gun, Burn Self.
Okay! You have some cut ribbon, a barrette, and a searingly hot, metal-tipped glue gun hot enough to leave a scar. You’re ready! Evenly secure the ribbon between the “jaws” of the clip, flip it over, and carefully (PLEASE?!) glue it in place.


Continue gluing your way all the way around, working slowly, making sure that the ribbon is even, and that you haven’t bought yourself a trip to the burn ward.

Step Four: Velcro: My secret weapon.
At this point, you’ll have an adorable barrette, which is technically ready for a test-drive. However, I am a wealth of Heloise-ish tips, gleaned from years of reading too many parenting, house, and style magazines. One tip that stuck with me (and who KNOWS where I picked it up) is to tack on a tiny bit of velcro (the rough, “hooked” side) to the inside of barrette to keep it from slipping out of hair. The adhesive-backed stuff makes this a snap. I hope everyone enjoys this macro close-up photo involving my thumb!



Step 5: Marvel at Your Amazing Skills! (And...my hair? If you want? I'm SWF'ing Emma Stone's color, basically. CALL ME, EMMA! I JUST WANT TO TALK.)





Congratulations! You now have a craft to call your own, can now save yourself some cash money on adorable barrettes AND you have a fall-back, homemade baby gift, to boot. (You can make and give a bunch of barrettes, either as the gift itself, or as an accessory to a larger one, with a few clipped on to the wrapping.)

Originally posted at Aiming Low.

Searching for a new insult?

Look no further!

I live in the best building.

Staying in the Lines

I wasn't allowed to use coloring books as a kid; my Mom forbade them. I used to DIE for coloring books, obviously. At home, I'd take the covers of Disney videos and TRACE THEM IN PEN, and then staple them together to make my own coloring books. It was piteous, you guys. When I would have playdates at other people's houses, my friends would be all, "let's watch You Can't Do That on Television! Let's make up a dance! Let's go sneak some candy while my au pair is having Quiet Time with my dad!" (HAND TO GOD, that last one happened, for real.) And I would quietly yet urgently inquire as to the existence of coloring books in their household, and to the extent present, their whereabouts.

And then eat the candy.

(I mean, come on.)

My friends would inevitably graciously supply coloring books, and we'd each intently focus on staying in the lines on our respective pages. Blissfully, I'd sit there, sugar dots in one hand, Burnt Orange crayon in the other, as I colored Ariel's hair just so, and plotted the careful shading I would employ on her fish scale...bottom...thing. (Zoological term.)


It's now 20-ish years later, and here I sit with my own kids, passing them the coloring books that their grandmother -- MY MOTHER -- got for them. 

Parenting is so weird.

My mom is an artist, and her goal was to have us be creative. She felt the coloring books stifled creativity (oh, Mom!), and that attempting to control that one little thing would help us along that path. As a parent now, even though I totally joke about the whole thing with her -- I kind of get it. I get having a specific aim for your kids, and wanting (even the illusion of) control; of some of it, any of it. And in certain ways, I actually think I'm stricter than my own parents were, overall, but sitting here, I'm hard-pressed to identify any one Parent Thing of mine that's, you know, No Coloring Books-level in its specificity of focus and goal. I have rules, obviously, and (admittedly generic) hopes for the quality of my kids' lives and how they conduct themselves, but...well, they're just that. I...hmm. Maybe I need a Comically Stringent Parent Rule of my own. Since I'm Crazy Rambling Reminiscing Lady at this point, did your parents have any comically stringent rules? Do you have any of your own? Let's talk about YOU now. I'll be over here, getting the playful shadows on Dora's face just right.

Venn Diagrams and Fantasy Football Bring ALL the Boys to the Yard