The Baby K-Hole

So... I've never actually done ketamine. I feel I should state this up front. But from what I've read (which is, admittedly, limited to the James St. James memoir Disco Bloodbath, later made into a movie called Party Monster starring Seth Green, who I can't really imagine as a glittery club kid because he will always--ALWAYS--be Kenny Fisher...

... HI. Welcome to the other side of that embedded video. I didn't really have anything else to say, but it's hard to enclose a YouTube clip in parentheses.) Anyway, from what I've read, sometimes if you do a lot of it, you fall into what is called a "K-hole," a sort of memory blackout that leaves you unaware of anything you did (St. James recalls emerging from one and finding a note to himself that read only, "Evil must be baked at 650 degrees.")

Before Jeff and I got married, I feel into a few wedding K-holes. But those were no match for the baby K-hole I fell into last week. (Picture a pot-bellied Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole, only instead of chasing a rabbit she's chasing a Pop Tart, and instead of a cat she's got a "Slumber Party" double DVD of My Girl and My Girl 2 that may or may not have been purchased at a truck stop.)

It all started innocently enough. I was comparison shopping for rocking chair cushions (yeah, and I'm pretty sure it was a Friday night--this is how I do it, Montell Jordan). Then somehow I was looking at crib bedding, and then rectal thermometers, and then, through a chain of associations I an unable or unwilling to reconstruct, I became obsessed with finding a Monchhichi onesie.

Monchhichi, for the uninitiated, are a line of Japanese stuffed toy monkey dolls that became popular in the early 1980s and were marketed by Mattel. They look kind of like if Rolf from the Muppets had knocked up a Cabbage Patch Kid:

Jeff's nickname as a baby was Monchhichi, because at one day old he already had more hair than most full-grown Wookies:

I myself went for more of a Joan Jett vibe coupled with a look of thinly-veiled alarm:

Point is, there's no way around it: this kid is going to be hairy. So a tongue-in-cheek onesie seemed apt.

And yet, that doesn't explain how I quickly found myself on eBay, bidding on tiny PVC figurines made in the 1970s that feature Monchhichi characters in a variety of sports poses (one of them is just holding a baguette and wearing overalls, which is more my speed, really).

Did I mention that, at two inches tall, these are choking hazards? And that they're made from the same material responsible for sewage pipes and pleather? But they're so cute. (You should see the tugboat captain.)

Sigh. Rocking chair cushions: totally a gateway drug.

The Baby K-Hole

Scenes From a Marriage: ABCs & S&M

The scene: Saturday night dinner date at a local French bistro. Out of nowhere, Jeff puts down his fork, looking stricken.

Jeff: We're going to be parents.
Me: I know. Together. It's stronger even than the bonds of marriage. ... Or bondage.
Jeff: [Laughs] Is there a safe word?

I consider this for a moment.

Me: College.

Scenes From a Marriage: ABCs & S&M

Ten 80's Movies Outfits I Covet Beyond All Reason

I watched Dirty Dancing over the weekend, which is never not a good idea. (Quick aside: Jeff has never seen it. Can you believe it? I had to explain the whole plot, which ended up sounding way less awesome than the actual movie: "So this Jewish feminist, Baby, goes on vacation in 1963 to a cheesy resort where there's segregation--but not between blacks and whites, between the dirty-dancing goyem waitstaff and the stuck-up clientele. Anyway, this dance instructor gets a back-alley abortion and Baby has to get her dad--who was on Law & Order for a really long time but then died and sometimes is  in those organ donor subway ads--to help, because he's a doctor. Then he's mad. But then she has sex with Patrick Swayze and they profess their star-crossed love by performing ballroom dance in front of a small crowd of rich Jews in the Catskills.")

But I digress.

One thing that struck me was how, every time I watch it, I want to reach into the TV screen and  rip Jennifer Grey's clothes right off of her body. Specifically, the sweet jean shorts and tank top she is wearing   during my personal favorite scene, the Forbidden Bridge Dance Montage:

Ugh, look at that. I could vomit from pure envy. Yes, I realize that the shirt is tucked in, and that a waist belt is involved. I'm also pretty sure she's wearing white Keds. I don't care. I want to BE her, right down to her Tatum O'Neal perm and old nose.

That visceral reaction inspired me to expand my list of 80's movies outfits I would totally cut a bitch to get my hands on...

#2: Adventures in Tablecloth-Inspired Eveningwear

If I had to choose the one celluloid scene that best encapsulates my deepest soul, it would be the opening from Adventures in Babysitting, when Elisabeth Shue dances around her bedroom to "And Then He Kissed Me" by the Crystals. Perhaps it is by the transitive property that I thereby covet this odd, long-sleeved velvet-slash-gingham party dress that she dons for her hot date with Bradley Whitford. What can I say? The way she shimmies into it while lip-syncing and making love to the camera is basically the most impressive multi-tasking I have ever seen.

#3: The Gravity-Defying Slushie Frat Party Boob Shelf

This photo doesn't really do justice to the amazing ensemble that Winona Ryder wears to the frat party in Heathers. Herve Leger wishes he could make a bandage dress as flattering and curve-hugging as this pencil skirt/overalls combo, and I add points for the off-the-shoulder sweater with the cleavage brooch. Christian Slater's face says it all. Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up.

#4: Sweet Sixteen And Always Been Pissed

I think we can all agree that Samantha Baker just doesn't give a fuck. But it's exactly this effortless ennui--and her ability to layer and accessorize--that wins me over. (We shall not mention the disheveled best friend with the unfortunate hair clip who looks like she's 45 and should be working Hollywood Boulevard with Julia Roberts and Laura San Giacomo.)

#5: The Hungry Like A Wolf

Natty Gann was my jam! It was like Mallory from Family Ties became a newsie. Plus, she had John Cusack. And a wolf! And a sweet tomboy wardrobe! I mean, it wasn't sweet, really, because she was a homeless runaway, but still.

#6, 7, and 8: Chicago Chic

I was going to go with Sloane Peterson (if I'd had access to a fringed leather jacket and pleated stone-washed shorts in the late 1980s... well, it would have been extremely unfortunate, but oh, how I prayed for them), but then I saw this photo and realized that I covet all three of these looks. Maybe Ferris' most of all--that vest! Le sigh! Cameron has a kind of Arnie Grape vibe going on, but secretly it was him I had the biggest crush on.

#9: Ione Have Eyes For You

If I had been allowed to design my wedding dress at age 12, this is exactly what it would have looked like. Listen, Diane Court: You stand up straight. Admit you're special.

#10 The I'm Gonna Be 40... Someday!

Wearing suit jackets makes me look like Peter Dinklage dressed as an airline stewardess, but that doesn't stop me from desperately wanting to wear houndstooth and felt bowlers. I know everyone loves Annie Hall when it comes to filmic representations of 80's menswear, but I prefer the quirkier Sally oeuvre. I guess what I'm saying is, I would like to partake of her pecan pie.

Jeff just made me think of at least 5 more examples, so consider this list TO BE CONTINUED...

Ten 80's Movies Outfits I Covet Beyond All Reason

TGI...WTF? Blood, Jweats, and Tears

Okay, I totally called this.

IT WAS A JOKE, but sadly, it has become reality (why couldn't this have come true, universe?) Also, how exactly are these different from the circa-1989 acid-washed, elastic-waisted jeans me and my fellow elementary school classmates wore so proudly, envying the way they bunched attractively around each other's hips and ankles?

I hate you, fashion. I really hate you.

And not in the subtextual, When Harry Met Sally way.

TGI...WTF? Blood, Jweats, and Tears

The Redemption of Sister Zoe: A List of Virtues

Hey ya’ll!

It’s been a while, huh?

To be honest, I shied away a bit after telling you all my deep dark secrets. Unfortunately, as I suspected, I horrified most of my family, and even some friends--whatever, guys, I was just tellin’ it like it is. This isn’t a post about my sexual escapades with Nickelodeon characters though…but before I get on to my main point (I sort of have one), here is a brief* list of some things about me that will hopefully serve to counteract the image of a drunk prostitute that I so vividly painted for you last time.

I am going to school to be a midwife (this does not mean I will be delivering babies in the fields of South America with a pot of hot water and some torn up bed sheets. Somehow many people are still unclear on what midwifery is. Sigh. Sorry, I’m not trying to start this list off all judgy)

In the mean time I am getting my birth doula certification, which means I will be providing labor support (emotional, physical, what have you) to women and their partners (I really do hate that saying “partners” makes it sound like I’ll be working exclusively with gay couples… not that there is anything wrong with that… but you feel me).

I’m a nanny! I know, I know, you’re thinking, “But you drop so much prescription medication on the floor!” I do…but somehow I am very good with babies. I looooove babies. So when not chain-smoking and being curmudgeonly, I walk around the city with the cutest little fellow strapped to my chest. Just thinking about it makes me miss his sweet little round head!

This is not that fellow. This is my friend Phoebe's daughter. And despite her best efforts I didn't let her have any beer.

Errr lets see. Wholesome qualities... I’ve never really stolen anything. When I was 11 or so my friend and I took two peaches from an outdoor fruit market. We felt so bad that we wandered for an hour trying to find a homeless person to give them to (you know, to make up for the awfulness of our ways), but with no success we returned to the market, confessed, and paid the 65 cents for our peaches.

When I was little, I felt so strongly that all of my stuffed animals had feelings, that I brought all of them (two garbage bags full, no lie.) on our summer vacation because I didn't want anyone to feel left out. There was also a rotating schedule of who got to be my main sleeping companion (sort of like now… KIDDDING!) Written out, this better illustrates my childhood OCD tendencies than my wholesomeness.

Despite my slightly irrational childhood fear of vomit, I have traveled--traveled--to help friends deal with unfortunate vomit dilemmas on more than one occasion (four). I developed a reputation for being good at this. I know--how the fuck does one do that, right? Well, when I was 14 and throwing my first house party, someone vomited in my bathroom sink (aim for toilets kids!). After some hard work with rubber gloves a plastic cup, fast forward six months and I was being called to clean steak fajitas out of a bathtub, Jager out of a washing machine, you name it! If I’m really trying to illustrate my humanitarianism, I once found an unconscious college kid sprawled out in front of my apartment and scooped vomit out of his mouth to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation.

That last one just felt obnoxious. I wanted to say bombastic, but that’s not really right, and also, tell me who can use that word without thinking I’m Boombastic say me fantastic…she touch me on my butt say I’m Mr. BOOM! But I digress…

I am also excessively nice to people in customer service positions. I only fly into screaming rages at Julie, Amtrak’s automated agent. I feel bad that cab drivers have to drive me places, and that waiters have to bring me food. When cashiers in training fuck up every transaction and have to call their managers, I feel bad for them because I know that everyone on line is plotting their death (Admittedly, my first thought is the detailed plotting of their death, but then I feel bad for them, does that still count?). I also yell at racists, and I immediately apologize to cats when I feel I’ve been mean to them. I guess you could say I’m sort of like mother Theresa.

* NEVER believe me when I promise to be brief. I am pretty much incapable of this.

Yesterday my brother-in-law accused me (lovingly) of being “so full of hate”, and suggested that I share it with the world through blogging. Well I disagree, Jeffrey, I am clearly full of love and buckets of guilt.

Now that we’re all clear on how charmingly multifaceted I am, to my main point: MY SISTER IS HAVING A BABY. Like for real she is, no joke, have you noticed? Every time I see her, that little belly has grown, so I KNOW this is for real, guys. I know this is common knowledge, but there is a person living inside of her. Can you believe it?

I am head over heels in love with him already. He was being a tad withholding and wouldn’t kick for me for weeks, so we had a moment of beef, but then he did and now we’re biffles. I have so much to say on this but I took up the whole post talking about how great I am. My bad. There will be many Beh Beh Z/aunthood related posts in the near future, cause this baby is only gonna get bigger and the weather is only gonna get hotter, and my sister will need to spend a lot of time eating ice cream sandwiches and napping in front of a fan. But for now I’ll just say that the time I used to spend watching reruns of Real Housewives and eating cereal straight from the box is now spent watching reruns of Real Housewives and embroidering tiny pastel things. Turns out I have no embroidery skills, but the kid can’t turn out lookin’ crazier than this, right?

1) We lived in Texas, and 2) as far as I know I wasn’t born a Guatemalan boy, so I’d like an explanation for this outfit, mom. 

Also, don’t worry, Una, I’m not actually attempting to make your child clothing. I once hemmed a skirt with a stapler.

The Redemption of Sister Zoe: A List of Virtues

Will Blog 4 Food

Sorry, guys, I have to do another shit-I-did-when-I-wasn't-here roundup today. But Sister Zoe has a guest blog coming tomorrow, so get excited! It is hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that I almost don't want to post it because it will show me up. Especially when it follows this. But fuck it, I have prizes for you guys.

I have amped up my Pimping Myself Out to Pay for 2029 Tuition (Or, Who Am I Kidding, Maternity Jeggings) Tour, in which I review things for money. Only instead of having sex with anyone I get free shipments of yogurt and stuff, and also the hourly rate's not nearly as good.

But seriously, thanks to BlogHer and their partners I do have some great giveaways this week over on my review blog, The Punky Reviewster. One is the aforementioned Alpina yogurt tasting, which gives you a chance to win a $200 Visa gift card, and the other is the second installment of my HomeGoods shopping adventure, which offers a $100 HomeGoods gift card. All you have to do to enter is comment, and it would make me so happy if one of you guys won, for real. I never give you anything. I need to have a week when I do an Oprah's Favorite Things. Except instead of cars, you'll get 99-cent bags of Tootsie Rolls and scented garbage bags. I can't see you right now, but I'm going to assume you're screaming with joy and clawing at your faces.

ALSO: I have another post up at Aiming Low. It is not about vaginas, but it is about babies, which come out of vaginas, so by the transitive property I am still obsessed with cooters.

I don't usually use the word "cooter" but it's past midnight and this level of tiredness is as close as I get to feeling drunk these days. It's getting crazy up in here! But you already knew that, when I mentioned scented garbage bags.

Seacrest, out.

Will Blog 4 Food

Parental Priorities, Chapter One: Naming Rights

Names are important.

(I know, I'm so deep. How do you stand it?)

Still, you have to admit, they are. And I'm not even talking about people names, which I'll get to in a moment. I'm talking about paint names. We're getting ready to paint the baby's room, and we know we want it to be green. What shade of green? Well, there's "apple blossom" (cute!). There's "lily pad" (CUTE!!). And then there's "dill weed."

Someone at Benjamin Moore does not want anyone to paint their house "dill weed." They could have called it "old sage" or "African Kermit," but no. Dill weed. And I'm sure that's not the worst paint name out there. If I were the CEO of Benjamin Moore, I would make a nice dark brown and call it BM (for the company's initials, obviously).

I am shallow, so I choose a great many things based on the name. Like nail polish ("Strawberry Margarita," after my favorite summer beverage), Jamba Juice (whatever makes me sound the least like a moron, i.e. no "Mango-a-go-go"), primary care physicians (but seriously, how else are you supposed to pick?). I cannot in good conscience bring my son into a room painted the color "dill weed." The color should be adorable-sounding, or, at the very least, stately.

In terms of the kid's name, Jeff and I only have one hard and fast rule: he can't share a name with anyone either of us has slept with (sorry, Jon Hamm!). We probably could come up with stricter parameters (no hyphenated first names ending in -Bob; no Muppets; no serial killers; no corporate sponsorship*), but not associating our child with sex (at least, other than the direct role it played in his conception) is all we can muster the energy to care about.

*Dorito Zorabedian does sound pleasantly ethnic, though. I bet he'd play in the World Cup.

Well, that and the relative cuteness of the random name assigned to the color of a paint swatch by a bored BM intern, obviously. Priorities, we rock at them.

Bonus Fun Fact: According to What to Expect, this week our unborn son's balls are descending from his abdomen into his scrotum, a trip that the book says "can take up to three days." I would like to officially claim the movie rights to that treacherous journey. I'm thinking Jake Gyllenhaal and Scott Caan would make great testicles.

Parental Priorities, Chapter One: Naming Rights

The Rain in Brooklain Stays Mainly... In Our Bedroom

Last night it rained in New York--hard.

And normally I love the sound of rain. Except that in this case it sounded especially vivid, like one of those rainforest noise machines (I personally have never wanted to sleep in a rainforest, mostly because of those creepy red-eyed tree frogs that look like they would waste no time chewing off your lips in your sleep).

As my eyes fluttered open around 3 a.m. it dawned on me, like that babysitter urban legend:

The rain is coming from inside the house!

Indeed, I leapt up to find  droplets springing from our windowsill--not through the window, but through the wood. Figuring our upstairs neighbors had left their window open, I called them to complain, but they didn't answer. So I stumbled around gathering towels and mixing bowls, which sort of kept the deluge off the floor.

It's nice to know the water is brown, though, isn't it? Our ceilings must be full of chocolate. 

Jeff was still asleep, so naturally I woke him up and burst into tears so that he would share in my misery. He put on pants, went upstairs to bang on the door (no luck, again, although I know they were up there because I heard them moving around), went outside to have a cigarette*, and promptly fell down the stairs**.

*He's quitting, don't worry. The baby will not grow up in a cloud of Pall Mall smoke.
**Also, he's fine. This story does not end in the hospital. In fact, it ends here, because I am too tired to think. I tried to go back to sleep but then a leak sprung over my pillow--only on my side, of course. Then I curled up at the foot of the bed and had a stress dream about an earthquake, during which all of our neighbors came into our apartment while I was naked. Also, it was still raining inside. Only that part wasn't a dream.

The Rain in Brooklain Stays Mainly... In Our Bedroom

Like Oprah's Book Club, But With Slightly More Incest

I am generally late to the game when it comes to literary phenomena. I think I read Harry Potter for the first time in 2005, eight years after it came out. I'd read about it in my Entertainment Weekly, I'd heard people talking about it... I'd shrugged. How great could it be? I thought. It's just a kids' book.

Little did I know...

The same thing happened with Twilight, except in that case I didn't read the books at all (I give Stephenie Meyer props for dreaming about a vampire who sparkles like the cover of my 1989 Lisa Frank Trapper-Keeper and launching a thousand fan sites, but she is not a good writer. Sorry. I can forgive crappy writing only in the case of salacious celebrity autobiographies, and even then, there had better be some really good stories about sex with a member of an 80s metal band.) Anyway, I skipped straight to the movies, and mostly just so I could play a Twilight-themed SceneIt! with my friend Margaret. The best part of my introduction to Twilight was that it happened right as Breaking Dawn, the final book in the series, was being released, and I got to hear my otherwise-sane friends have conversations like this:

Friend 1: I don't know, Bella getting pregnant seems like bullshit. I thought all of Edward's bodily fluids were replaced with venom. Doesn't that include sperm?
Friend 2: I know. And even if he did make sperm, aren't his balls like the temperature of the polar ice caps? 

Maybe that's why he was so moody.

Anyway.

Yesterday I finally succumbed to The Hunger Games.

Only three years late, so I'm making progress. But OMG YOU GUYS. There is a reason people are freaking about about this. I opened the book as I boarded the A train at 42nd Street around 8:15, and I didn't stop until I finished it some four and a half hours later. This is better than that time I found a dog-eared copy of Flowers in the Attic at a church sale (the irony was lost on me then) and spent the next few years of my adolescence being grossed out that I was kind of rooting for the brother and sister to do it (I really hope you've read that book, otherwise I sound like a total perv).

Oh, who am I kidding, I am a total perv. Now that I've read the first book all I want to know is, do Katniss and Peeta have sex? This is what pregnancy hormones do to me. This and inspiring me to buy Twix ice cream bars at the grocery store but no actual dinner ingredients.

But seriously, who wants to read these books with me? Because I need people to talk to. Let's start a book club. It will be just like Oprah's, only instead of launching careers and influencing the zeitgeist mine will investigate whether or not Rick Springfield's memoir Late, Late At Night is composed entirely of "Jessie's Girl" lyrics.

Like Oprah's Book Club, But With Slightly More Incest

Texts From My Sister: New York Needs More Public Restrooms

There's a drunk person on my street screamin "I gottttta poooop!" hahhhhha

Poor guy. And poor... whoever had to use whatever dive bar bathroom he wandered into after him. (Seriously, only slightly less well-known than "Beer before liquor, never sicker" is "Shit where you quaff, pick up the staph.")

Texts From My Sister: New York Needs More Public Restrooms

My Tony Awards Acceptance Speech

Oh my God, you guys. I seriously cannot believe I'm up here right now.

I remember back in third grade when my class put on a production of the Nigerian folktale "It's All the Fault of Adam" and I was the only African washerwoman not to be given a speaking role, I almost gave up before my career even had a chance to blossom. But instead I held my turban high and looked out at the crowd as I scrubbed my invisible soiled linens, and thought, Someday, I will fucking own you. And here I am.

I know I'm not the best actress in this room, or even, probably, in any room that has more than five people in it. I know I'm not the best singer, either, and that I like to drunkenly claim that "How Will I Know" by Whitney Houston is "my" karaoke song, even though if I'm honest with myself I really don't have the range for it. I may not have a dancer's legs, poise, or even basic coordination, but I try, god dammit. My junior year at Wesleyan--which some of you may know as the school with the naked co-ed dorms and humanities class in pornography--I took part in a modern dance piece set to the music of the Kronos Quartet. I wore a mesh top and orange underwear that showed through my dance pants. The underwear part was a mistake, but everyone later agreed that the performance was a tour de force, especially the six-minute segment where I pretended to be inside a tiny box. No one could believe I never studied mime.

That summer, my best friend Anna and I staged an alternative sketch comedy show at Collective Unconscious, a charming blackbox theater on Ludlow Street. In one bit, Anna pretended to be Edgar Allen Poe doing a commercial for syphillis medication. In another, we performed an interpretive dance to Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" using vegetables as props. Everyone applauded, but even then I knew that no one understood my art.

Until now.

I have to tell you, one of the sweetest things about this victory is beating out January Jones as Estragon in T-Pain's musical revival of Waiting for Godot. That bitch can't act, and this Tony Award proves it.

In closing, I'd like to quote a few lines from the 90s R&B group Tony! Toni! Toné!: "It feels good yeah/It feels good/Oh it feels good/Sure feels good to me."

P.S. This post was Jeff's idea. I asked him for a subject and he suggested this--"It's topical!" or a post about me hosting the Tony Awards. But then he reconsidered: "It would just be you and your mom on the couch with a magnum of wine, commenting on what was happening, and then someone else would  have to introduce the nominees." Truth.

My Tony Awards Acceptance Speech

Navel-Gazing

Although I do a lot of figurative navel-gazing on this blog, I've never been much of a literal navel-gazer. Mostly because I never used to see my navel much during day-to-day activities. Now, it's front and center. In my favorite position (cross-legged on the couch with a pillow behind me and something awful like Teen Mom on TV), in my favorite beat-the-heat outfit (gym shorts and a bra), it stares up at me like a little well in a mound of bread dough.

I try to talk to the baby, when I remember to. It's not the most natural thing in the world. Mostly our conversations are awkward and one sided.

Me: "Whatcha doin' in there, buddy?"

Fetus: ...

Me: "You kickin'?"

Fetus: ... (translation: "Duh.")

Me: "Are you kicking because you liked those tacos or because they made you angry?"

Fetus: ... (possible translations: "AHHHHH!!!!! I LOVE TACOS!!!!!!!!!!!"; or "You know beans give me hiccups, you bitch!")

I've also been singing to him. My favorite so far is "Be My Baby" by the Ronnettes. I also want to learn the words to "Cry Baby," by Janis Joplin for an ironic lullaby when he screams later on. Of course, that one's kind of fucked up, if you look at the lyrics, but I don't think he'll know.

And if he doesn't like it, he can always throw up on me.

For now, though, he's my captive audience.

Navel-Gazing

Everything I've Always Hated About Summer* *But Was Too Afraid To Admit: Volume 2

So last summer I came out about my hatred of melon, madras, and beach volleyball, and oh, it hurt so good. And since it was 98+ degrees today in NYC, and lugging my belly around felt like doing a three-legged race with an amputee in a shallow pool of molasses, I thought it was a good time to pick up where I left off.

Ahem...

White Jeans. I don’t know who decided that wearing head-to-toe white in the summer was important (maybe Diddy?). Look, I know that white reflects sun and keeps you cool and looks nice on boats. And if you have been blessed with a set of slender, shapely legs and the ability not to spill whatever you happen to be eating immediately onto your lap, then please, knock yourself out with the albino denim.

But unless you live inside a Ralph Lauren ad amongst nothing but sun-bleached rocks and immaculately scrubbed yacht decks, white jeans are not a practical item of clothing. Think about it: what do you think of when you think of summer? Barbecue, right? Grass. Sweat stains. None of which are allowed in these pants. And if you live in New York, forget it. One step outside your door in July and you'll be blasted with a steaming puff of street grime-filled air that would turn Justin Bieber black.

Victoria Beckham, demonstrating the ever-popular "hip dysplasia" fashion pose. She is not, presumably, about to sit on the NYC subway or eat a plate of ribs.

(Some of you may recall that I own a pair of white jean shorts, which makes me somewhat of a hypocrite, but in my defense I don't look good in them. Are you happy now, Diddy? ARE YOU??)

Frisbee. When I walk through the park or along the beach and see a group of people throwing a frisbee around and laughing, I don't think, What good, clean fun, or even, Wow, that guy really needs to put his shirt back on. No, I think, I am going to get hit in the face. 

The Hipster Reappropriation Of Old Lady Sandals. Remember back in the summers of the early aughts when we all used to shuffle around in those $3 mesh slippers favored by elderly Chinese women? (I used to pair mine fetchingly with my cropped sweatpants during trips to the corner bodega for toilet paper refills. It was a sexy time.)

Anyway, lately I've been noticing these on everyone:

Now, it bears mentioning that these sandals have been in style for a long time, at least among certain sectors of the population. For instance, my mother's Polish cleaning woman has worn them since the late 1980s, usually with the kind of thick support hose you could insulate walls with. And look, better that young women are wearing orthopedic footwear than hooker heels. But really--can't we stop taking the old ladies' shoes?

Gazpacho. I know I'll make some enemies here, but if I wanted to drink cold tomato sauce... well, you'd probably have to lock me in the Ragu factory overnight, Career Opportunities-style, because there is no way I'm doing that voluntarily, I don't care how floridly you pronounce it, Alex Trebek.

Salsa: It's what's for dinner.

Honorable mentions:  Men in Adidas sandals; air conditioners set to "cryogenic freeze" setting; skin cancer pictorials in my Us Weekly.

Everything I've Always Hated About Summer* *But Was Too Afraid To Admit: Volume 2

Weiners And Take-Out: A Weekend Well Spent

The Bloggess has a weekly feature she calls "Shit I Did When I Wasn't Here." This is me stealing it.

So, here's what I did over the past few days:

I wrote about the dangers of cell phone crotch shots for Aiming Low.

Doing my best Blake Lively, purely for educational purposes.

I also bemoaned the lack of decent summer television for Weekly Seven magazine.

I sat around while Jeff painted his office and I didn't help at all.

Then I ate a truly horrific amount of cold Chinese noodles with sesame sauce, but I don't have a link to that (and seriously, you should thank me).

Right now I'm up late working on a project for my, you know, "real job" (another thing I do when I'm not here) while someone is kicking me from inside of my body, hence no substantive post today.

Except, no, I'm underselling myself. A nudie pic PSA is totally substantive.

As opposed to cold noodles with sesame sauce.

I mean, seriously, I might as well eat paste.

UPDATE: I also got invited by BlogHer to go on a shopping spree that could win you--yes, you!--gift cards to HomeGoods. Go check it out!

Weiners And Take-Out: A Weekend Well Spent

Distressing By-Products of "Nesting," Part Two

...or, Humiliating Artifacts Uncovered Whilst Cleaning Out Future Nursery:

Exhibit A: My bridal shower ribbon hat!

Maternity friendly!

Exhibit B: The business card of one of the two (!) strippers my sister hired for my bachelorette party!

Yes, that's his real name. Yes, that's his real hair. Only one way to find out if that number's still valid!

Exhibit C: My college ID card! (photo taken senior year of high school at a passport studio... and you know my track record with those)

Jeff literally recoiled when I showed him this.

And now for a poll: What should I trash? What should I keep? And what was an exotic dancer doing with an AOL account in 2007?

Distressing By-Products of "Nesting," Part Two

TGI...WTF? Fetus In A Fright Wig

I should really be keeping a week by week diary of what I read in my pregnancy books, because there is some jacked up shit going on in my belly right now. Take, for example, this passage from Week 24 of What to Expect When You're Expecting:

Is your baby a brunette, a blonde, or a redhead? Actually, right now his locks are white since there's no pigment yet.

Say what? In all of the instances I've imagined what the little guy looks like floating around in there, Don King has never come into play. Until now...

Photo of Jeff at 2 mos. used for likeness. P.S. He's not jaundiced, this photo is just 31 years old.

Or--worse!--what if his coif looks more like Jay Manuel's (aka "Mr. Jay" from ANTM)?

Photo of yours truly used for likeness. P.S. In this one, instead of Photoshop I used Microsoft Paint. Can you tell? Also, yes, that is a romper. Shut up.

I only know one thing for sure, and that's that this is not the last time I doctor photos of Jeff and me as babies to make us look like we have grown-up hair, because damn, that is precious.

ALSO: I have a new post up at Aiming Low about test-driving kegel balls. I really hope the Internet implodes before my son is old enough to read it.

TGI...WTF? Fetus In A Fright Wig

Why I Would Probably Die In The Opening Scene of An Action Movie

There was a tornado warning in New York yesterday. I was in a screening of X-Men: First Class, trying to keep the baby from going prematurely deaf by muffling the bone-rattling explosions with my copy of Fit Pregnancy (which is a total sham, but that's a post for another day), when I got the text from Jeff.

And much like the last time a tornado came to the city, I reacted like someone who learned everything she knows about tornadoes from The Wizard of Oz and Helen Hunt.

"Should I stand in a doorway? Wait, no, is this the basement one? Shit. Should I go in the subway? It's dripping what looks like acid rain and there's a lady near the turnstiles with no pants on but I have an unlimited MetroCard so I can live down there until mid-month if need be. Oh, also! There's an Au Bon Pain next door. Should I go in there so that I can have muffins available in case I'm trapped? The cashier is pretty small but I bet he would let me hide behind the sandwich station."

"Just stay indoors," my husband said slowly, as if talking to a particularly feeble puppy.

Now, I'm in no way trying to make light of tornadoes, which are terrifying and destructive and which just over a week ago killed over a hundred people in Joplin, Missouri, devastating an entire town. But New York is ill-prepared for natural disasters. That's why movies like to send over floods, asteroids, and alien invasions--the severed head of the Statue of Liberty rolling like a bowling ball down Broadway makes a pretty good special effect. Unfortunately for me, movies are the only training I have in emergency situations. If I can't hole up in the library with Jake Gyllenhaal, or storm the subways with Lt. John McClane, I'm lost.

There's a character in the X-Men movie called Darwin, so named for his ability to adapt to survive in any situation. I am... like the opposite of that.

Sigh. At least Jeff has better disaster instincts than to run to the nearest muffin. Maybe our kid still has a chance.

Why I Would Probably Die In The Opening Scene of An Action Movie

Scenes From a Marriage: Breaking Up Baby

Me: It’s weird, when I used to think about having a baby, I never thought about sharing it with someone else.

Jeff: (immediately) I get the top half.

Me: No, that’s not what I meant. I just never imagined being able to relinquish control to another—

Jeff: OK, I get the front half.

Me: Stop it, we are not dividing the baby. I’m talking conceptually.

Jeff: Fine, I get the head and extremities. You can have the torso.

Scenes From a Marriage: Breaking Up Baby