I Love You For Condimental Reasons

Lately, I've noticed a troubling trend. Whenever I ask Jeff to fetch or prepare food for me--because I am being used as a human Bowflex by our freakishly strong offspring who also likes to eat my hair--I have to give him orders that make me sound like a disgusting, downmarket version of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally:

On coffee:

"Put in A LOT of Half & Half, okay? More than you think would anyone would want. Try to achieve a cup of Half & Half with a subtle coffee flavor. And don't skimp on the sugar. Give me four packets, and if they only have the big pour containers, turn it upside-down and count to ten, and make sure no lumps are obstructing the opening."

On sandwiches:

"I want more mayonnaise than the FDA advises a single person to consume at one sitting. Put on an amount that makes you recoil and then add another teaspoon. Also I want the cheese layer to be thicker than the meat layer by a ratio of 2 to 1."

On fries:

"It should look like you're making a Carrie diorama, only the people are fries and the blood is ketchup. I want the splatter to reach all four corners of the container. They should need to call Dexter."

What can I say? I'm passionate about my cuisine.

I Love You For Condimental Reasons

Sister, Sister

I just totally made you think of Tia and Tamera Mowry, didn't I? How long has it been since that happened? Who needs time travel when I can instantly transport you back to 1994? In yo face, Doc Brown!

But that pop culture reference was really just an attempt to be clever* as I pay homage to MY sister, who you all know and love as Sister--or, more recently, Aunt--Zoe. For today is her birthday.

*Except, I just realized that I used the EXACT SAME title for last year's birthday blog post. So... let's agree that next year's post will be "Sister Act," and will feature ill-advised parody gospel lyrics, okay? Whoopi's excited:

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!

Sorry. Back to Zoe.

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey girl. Hey.

Isn't she pretty? I love her.

I have loved her ever since I (sort of) watched her being born 26 years ago.

I made this exact same face when I was in labor with S. I call it "Nermyl gets an enema."

But dudes, for real, she was such a cute kid. She was always so much louder and funnier and braver than I was. This face (that, as always, I want to eat--nomnomnom) encapsulates Zoe's spirit:

My dad is wearing a shirt that says, "Midwifery is blooming." You are not at all surprised.

I'm not going to get mushy, because Zoe would not stand for that in a public forum, but I will give you my:

Top 10 Reasons My Sister Is the Best

1. As a toddler, she called McDonald's "E-I-O." Because she was a BABY GENIUS.
2. Once when I was a teenager, we got in a fight and I yelled "Fuck you!" at her, because I am classy, and she screwed up her little face and she shot back, "Do you even know what that means? That means sex you."
3. She is the best in crisis situations. You have a bathtub filled with vomit, you skip the plumber and you call Zoe. Not that this has ever happened to me.
4. She cannot have a pet because there are too many prescription medication pills and X-acto blades embedded in her floorboards. Her life is so much more exciting than mine.
5. She has a much cooler tattoo than I do. It's on her ribcage in a place you will only see if you're in her autobiography. It's perfect. I'm jealous.
6. In 26 years, I have never heard her sing, or seen her really dance. At this point I think she abstains as a point of pride. This is especially impressive seeing as the rest of the family will belt out a song with zero provocation, and dance to anything, even "My Humps" at some stranger's bat mitzvah.
7. As a part-time nanny, she carries a stroller up and down subway steps in wedge-heeled boots about four times a day. The stroller, the toddler in it, and her giant purse full of Diet Pepsi and Pall Malls weigh as much as she does. So she is basically Superman.
8. She sends me picture messages detailing how she fails at wearing shirts.
9. She wears the tiniest pants you have ever seen. They are like the size of the overalls your old Sylvanian Families squirrel son wore before your dog licked all the fuzz off of his head and made him look like some plastic gingham road kill version of Terminator.

    10. She's the wisest and most thoughtful and most kick-ass and most beautiful person I know.

Also, honorable mention, she once dressed up for Halloween as a contestant on Toddlers & Tiaras.

I tell her that if she ever loses her shit and kills someone, THIS is the photo that will run on the cover of The New York Post. You know I'm right. There is a reason your Facebook photos need to be set to private.

LOVE YOU, BOO.

P.S. As a special birthday present to Zoe and personal favor to me, can you please Ask Sister Zoe some shit? Her advice will seriously blow your mind.

Sister, Sister

All About My (Listen To Your) Mother

This Sunday I performed at the JCC in Manhattan as part of the first-ever production of Listen to Your Mother in New York.

Don't I look like I'm filibustering before Congress? "And that, sirs, is what IHOP stands for."

(Longtime blog readers will remember that I got my start as "Sheep/Triangle" in the Emmanuel Midtown Y's Preschool Winter Play, so I think we all can agree that my acting career has really come full circle.)

Anyway, Listen to Your Mother (LTYM for short) was started by blogger Ann Imig in 2010 as a way to "give Mother's Day a microphone." Or, as I've been explaining it to people, "It's like the Vagina Monologues, except about moms instead of vaginas. But there are still some vaginas."

The incredible cast & crew! Top row, from left: Associate Producer Holly Fink, Eve Lederman, Ilana Wiles, Kathy Curto, Deborah Goldstein, Howard Margulies (no vagina!!), Cynthia Bastidas, Abby Sher, Alysia Reiner, Emcee Extraordinaire Rene Syler. Bottom row, from left: Patty Chang Anker, Producer Varda Steinhardt, Director Amy Wilson, LTYM Founder and Guru Ann Imig, Kirsten Kovaleski Piccini, moi, Kathy Kate Mayer, Jonny Schremmer, and Estelle Sobel Erasmus.

The experience of being a part of this show was truly transformative. I know I was kind of glib when I announced my casting, but what I never told you was that I got this... feeling when I first saw the call for auditions. You know how people always tell you about the day they met their husband or wife, and they thought to themselves, I'm gonna marry that guy/gal, so help me Jesus, and you try to will your eyes not to roll, because that kind of thing just does not happen to people who do not live in Nicholas Sparks' subconscious mind? Well. As soon as I saw the LTYM NYC announcement, I just kind of knew I was meant to be a part of it. Which is not to say I wasn't nervous at the audition, or that I didn't convince myself that I had been William Hung-caliber terrible as soon as I walked out of the audition room. But when I found out I got it, it felt right. It's not often we find ourselves in precisely the place we need to be, and that's exactly where I was this weekend, in the company of a group of incredible women (and one man) who inspire and amaze me*.

*And you all know what a superficial bitch I can be, so you know I love them for really real.

A few of my insanely talented costars (pics courtesy of Deborah Goldstein):

Me and Patty Chang Anker--who went to my high school! Small world.

The hilarious Kate Mayer.

The glorious Cynthia Bastidas.

Powerhouse producer and performer Varda Steinhardt.

Kirsten Kovaleski Piccini--possibly THE nicest woman on the planet--with Patty, the second or third nicest, depending on who you ask.

Kirsten's platform heels, signed by the cast.

Director and performer Amy Wilson making us all cry with a pre-show pep talk. The amazon on the left is the fabulous SAG award-winning actress Alysia Reiner.

Amy and Kathy Curto, who makes me long to be Italian.

Ace in the hole Jonny Schremmer.

Mothers superior Ann Imig and Deborah Goldstein.

...and a Muppet who somehow wandered over from Sesame Street.

Please also check out the work of Eve Lederman, Ilana Wiles, Howard Margulies, Abby Sher, Rene Syler and Estelle Sobel Erasmus. Every single story that was told on Sunday was so funny and powerful that somehow I lost my judgment pants. I even said to some of my costars nervously before the show, "There aren't even any pieces that I secretly think suck!" Yes, Terms of Endearment was basically written about me.

I think my reading went well*. I gave myself a Jack Donaghy-style pep talk before I took the podium ("It's WINNING time, you magnificent son of a bitch! Make mommy proud of her big boy because he's the BEST!!!"), and people laughed a lot. I didn't slur any words or get a nosebleed. My boobs didn't start leaking, or fall out of my top. As the shortest member of the cast, it's possible people could only see my eyebrows, but I plucked them, so they were ready for their spotlight.

S. wasn't allowed to come to the performance because of his tendency to yell and throw up on people and things, but he met me at the after party to give the photographers his best smize.

The best part of this whole thing might be the fact that I get to hang a poster that says "LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER" in giant bold type in his room.

*The YouTube video of my performance will be up sometime in the next month or two, at which time you can bet your sweet bippy I'll be posting it and demanding that you make it go viral. Think of it as a Charlie Bit My Finger, but with just a touch more vagina.

All About My (Listen To Your) Mother

Choose Your Own Infomercial Adventure!

I asked, you answered, and I won $300 for sending traffic over to NickMom!

This is what I've been doing for the past few days (and bless you, YouTube nation, for taking the time to upload a video of this clip repeating and repeating):

So now you need to tell me what crazy infomercial product I should buy with my winnings. Here are the rules:

1. It must be relatively cheap. Momma may want a bra she can surreptitiously drink out of, but baby also needs diapers. Allegedly. (I'm giving S. the side-eye right now, because I've seen him poop on command, and by "on command" I mean "as soon as I remove his diaper." I thought it would shoot out like silly string, but actually it's kind of like a finicky soft-serve machine that stops and starts. This is what science class looks like in the School of Life.)
2. It must be at least sort of dumb. If I wanted something practical, I'd get drunk and order a monogrammed whiskey decanter from Pottery Barn, okay?
3. I must be able to purchase it online. I don't like talking to customer service representatives. And it's worse if they're automated. It is a true story that I once called "Julie" from Amtrak a stupid whore.

Nominate a product in the comments and I'll choose the one that sounds like the most fun to test-drive. I'll blog the experience regardless, but if I pick your recommendation I'll also send you my Shake Weight, because an invisible cardio handjob is a gift that really should keep on giving.

And if you want this to be a monthly thing, please please go click up my links again:

I Wish I Could Be Like: Mrs. Robinson 
Paltrow-Martins Seek Babysitter
Top 9 Reasons Sleep is Overrated
Top 9 Rejected Sitcoms With 'Bitch' in the Title

Me, Jeff, S. and our future Super Bass-O-Matic thank you!

Choose Your Own Infomercial Adventure!

I Went to the Philippines Almost Two Months Ago and All You Got Was This Stupid Blog Post

So, yeah... remember when I made that huge deal about flying halfway around the globe and how I was going to update you, like, tout de suite?

Um.

Right.

So.

[Whistles, tumbleweeds roll by, Brangelina gets engaged]

We went.

I think at first I was just super jet-lagged, and also I (possibly) broke a small(-ish) toe, which brought me great distress. But also I was kind of embarrassed I'd made such a big deal about the 16-hour flights.

Because S.?

IS A MIRACLE FLYING BABY.

He was SO GOOD. He either slept or quietly ate almost all the way there and back. There were people sitting behind us who did not even know we had a baby with us, that's how good he was.

Well, he had his moments. Also I had to throw out a soiled onesie in the bathroom trash can. (Sometimes I wonder, am I a mom or a Keith Richards roadie?)

Anyway, we made it. This is not a Sixth Sense-y thing when I've been a ghost this whole time. SPOILER.

It gets better. Our hotel? Was a Filipino Melrose Place.

Not pictured: Dramatic wig-removal.

S. wasted no time in lounging by the central pool in the hopes of engaging in bitchy gossip and petty betrayals.

Men's Health, eat your heart out.

Jeff and I, on the other hand, wasted no time in hitting up the $2 happy hour.

Does this jet lag make us look really fucking tired?

The next morning, I ate my own weight in tropical fruit (my colon nonetheless went on strike for about 5 days, but that's a blog for another day never), and we headed off to the beach, riding shotgun on a tricked-out tricycle:

Yes, mom, there are seat belts. You just... can't see them. It's the angle. Or the light. Or something.

You're not supposed to drink the water in the Philippines, which is funny, because the ocean looks better than what I filter through my Brita back home.

The pool water, however, is probably sterilized by the communal pee, as all pools are, so drink to your heart's content!

I was probably drunk in these photos. Hell, I'm a little drunk right now. The point is, my boobs are pretty big at the moment and I need to celebrate them in photo essay form before they deflate and/or drop to my knees.

Where was I? Nowhere? Great, that leads me to longganisa, these bright red Filipino breakfast sausages that I ate far too many of, despite Jeff's telling me they were probably made of domesticated animal penis.

You know what, I'm just not going to Google it.

Sorry. Let's have a visual palate cleanser.

Still penises, but cuter.

But the whole reason we were there, the reason we flew and ferried and drank rum in the afternoon for no reason was to celebrate the wedding of Aileen and Ryan. S. was the coin bearer, which, it turns out, looks a lot like a tiny sailor wearing miniature Hammer pants.

But even a supercute, superfat American baby in a little silk diaphragm cap can't steal the show from a bride who enters the church like she's starring in a Guns N' Roses video:

That's a car behind her with ITS HIGH BEAMS ON. I'll give you a minute to collect yourselves.

Awwww.

And Aileen and Ryan weren't the only ones striking a Kodak-ready pose of eternal love....

What is butt? Does that count as second base? Or is it a foul? Does it matter, when you have such an excellent photobomb?

I'll leave you with a postcard S. made to send to family and friends while I was busy trying to make the Running Man "a thing" at the wedding reception...

I Went to the Philippines Almost Two Months Ago and All You Got Was This Stupid Blog Post

Baby v. Dog: An Adorable Smackdown

I have been meaning to do an epic post about the incredibly boss jacket Jeff got me for my birthday, and also how I am trying to bring back using "boss" as slang, and also "do me a solid." But in order to fully express the bossness of said jacket, which makes me look like I belong in a circa-1992 Sassy magazine, also known as My Sartorial Goal For All Time, I have to convince Jeff to do me a solid (see? sounds so natural) and take my picture, preferably in a series of catalog poses in front of public fountains and soft-focus lampposts.

So in the meantime, please enjoy the heart-warming sight of S. trying to eat a small dog:

S: OH HI BUSTER, CAN I GRAB YOU? PSYCHE! TOO LATE. WHAT'S THAT, A BALL?
Buster: [quiet resignation]

S: THIS LOOKS LIKE IT'S MADE OF RAINBOWS, CAN IT GO IN MY MOUTH?
Buster: [taciturn resistance] 

S: WHY DO YOU DENY ME??????? I HATE YOU, AND LIFE!!!!!!!!!
Buster: [unfazed chewing] 

S: IF I CAN'T HAVE YOUR BALL, I WILL HAVE TO EAT... YOUR BUTT!!!! (WAIT, THAT CAME OUT WRONG, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.)
Buster: [WTF?]

S: DON'T BE MAD, THOUGH; I LOVE YOU. COME BACK TO ME?
Buster: [subtle bitchface]
 

S: YOU COMPLETE ME.
Buster: [Jerry Maguire? Really? You are your mother's son.] 

Also! There is video, because I am an awesome parent.

Enjoy. Don't forget about the jacket, though. It's real, and it's spectacular.

P.S. Buster belongs to our awesome friends Alex and Christina. Check out his (Alex's, not Buster's, not that he couldn't do it, though, probably) totally boss short horror movie here.

Baby v. Dog: An Adorable Smackdown

Baby's First Snoop Dogg Parody

Rollin' down the street,
suckin' binky,
sippin' on apple* juice
Laid back...
With my mind on my mommy
and my mommy on my mind

*Jeff, my other child, replaces "apple" with "titty" in his rendition. Substitution optional.

P.S. That's a baguette, not a giant spliff.

Baby's First Snoop Dogg Parody

Birthdaypedia

Today I am 32. [hold for applause] Last night, after spending far too much time on WebMD trying to ascertain whether my stomach cramps were A) amoebic dysentery or, B) my uterus staging an attempt at secession, I consulted Wikipedia in an effort to better understand the challenges and rewards I might expect in the coming year. These are my findings.

Pro: "32 is the ninth happy number." Great! This can only mean good things. Right?
Con: 13 is also supposedly a "happy" number. Uh huh. This is me on my 13th birthday:

And while I may look happy to have made a pilgrimage to show Hans Christian Andersen my acid wash Texas tuxedo and my best Babysitters Club Super Special cover pose, trust me--I was not happy.

Pro: "In the Kabbalah, there are 32 Kabbalistic Paths of Wisdom."
Con: Gwyneth. Always ruining everything with her odorless seitan poops and smug British inflections nasal ukelele ballads. Sigh. That bitch is almost as bad as Uma.

Pro: "32 is the number of teeth of a full set of teeth in an adult human, including wisdom teeth." [emphasis mine] I AM WISE, PEOPLE. And I still have all of my original teeth, minus 3/4 of one of my incisors that I lost playing "run around the big cement rectangle outside of school as fast as you can until you realize you can't manifest a playground using psychic powers and the energy generated by three packs of Yodels" in 6th grade.
Con: I haven't been to the dentist since September. Of 2010. I floss at my own risk, lest one of those Acme anvils falls out.

Pro: "32 is the number of pages in the average comic book (not including the cover)"
Con: The best part of comic books are the covers.

See?

(Boring but basically a) Pro: In chess, the total number of black squares on the board, the total number of white squares, and the total number of pieces (black and white) at the beginning of the game.
Con: Reminds me how much the ending of Lost sucked.

Inconclusive:

• The code for international direct dial phone calls to Belgium
• O.J. Simpson's number when he played for the Buffalo Bills (saved from being an obvious con by virtue of the fact that hearing "Buffalo Bill" makes me do the creepy Silence of the Lambs voice and yell at Jeff, "It puts the lotion in the basket!")

So. I think we can agree that I wasted an evening. But in the name of science. Which proves I'm maturing.

Birthdaypedia

Click It Up, Baby. Click. It. Up.

This is what I look like in my mind on a good day.

This is what I look like in reality on a bad day.

Either way, the Heathers reference in the title works, right? Right. Moving on.

Okay, so I'm not going to lie to you--this is a post of links to other stuff I've written. BUT WAIT. You want to go to there. Because if you click them, I might get an Ab Roller. I KNOW. Keep reading.

So, first, I have this column in the New York Observer. It's pretty much exactly like Sex and the City, except that Candace Bushnell already did that, and if I tried to copy her my main character would have to be named, like, Unitard Lesbos or something, and also there's only so much you can write about grooming your nether regions to resemble a racist 1930s children's television character. So instead, my column is about parenting. But it's funny! I call babies dicks and stuff. (Note: I refer to the babies as dicks, not to baby dicks, as I'm pretty sure talking too much about infant genitalia lands you on an unsavory government watch list.)

Anyway, here are the links to my first two efforts. If you go share and comment on them, I will definitely be famous and have my own TV show and can probably someday give you a new car (or at least an autographed copy of my eighth grade yearbook photo, in which my braces are color-coordinated with my overalls).

NYO column 1: Behold a Pale Listserv
NYO column 2: Baby Onboard

Okay, next, I've been writing for NickMom, a new humor site from Nickelodeon. If you click on these, I could win money (for real), and if I win money, I will use it to buy more As Seen on TV infomercial products that I can blog about, like The Bump-It or maybe the Slap Chop.

So if you want to see THIS...

You know what to do.

Top 9 Shocking Revelations in the Easter Bunny's Autobiography
Top 9 Reasons Pinterest is Better Than Sex
Top 9 Inappropriate Thoughts To Have During Mother's Group
I Wish I Could Be Like Clair Huxtable

Finally, I'm still over at Aiming Low, making MS Paint graphs about poop that have the same effect on Jeff as that Sex Panther cologne from Anchorman.

You know you're proud of me. Just admit it.

I promise a Philippines post is coming soon. Also probably a self-serving post to remind you that it's my birthday on Friday. The 13th. Yup, that'll end well.

Click It Up, Baby. Click. It. Up.

Face-Testing Olay® Total Effects Tone Correcting UV Moisturizer

Everyone has at least one physical feature they covet but will seemingly never possess without surgical--or divine--intervention: a straight little nose, long, shapely legs, full lips, a flat stomach. (And anyone who says they don’t is either lying or a Ukranian fashion model.)

My if-only feature fantasy has always been beautiful skin. I had some serious acne in my teens and early twenties (which I fetchingly spackled over with heavy foundation--in my prom pictures I look like an awkward geisha who’s been let loose in a Jessica McClintock outlet). Even after it abated it left me with unruly, sensitive combination skin. I did everything I was supposed to--drank tons of water, used oil-free products, loaded up on antioxidants--but I never achieved the dewy perfection I so desperately craved. (In retrospect, perhaps this is because I also did a lot of things I wasn’t supposed to--like drink lots of booze and smoke cigarettes and eat Rice Krispies treats for lunch. But let’s place the blame squarely on nature and look the other way, agreed?)

Anyway, aging hasn’t helped my skin woes. You’d need a sherpa to navigate my crow’s feet, and the oiliness of my youth has recently been replaced by inexplicable dryness, with some red splotches and brown spots thrown in just for fun. So when I was approached to test-drive Olay® Total Effects Tone Correcting UV Moisturizer I jumped in face-first.

The seven things the moisturizer claims to do--seven, being inherently lucky and the title of a Prince song, bodes well already--are moisturize, minimize the appearance of fine lines, reduce the appearance of age spots, smooth skin texture, reduce eye puffiness, defend skin against harmful free radicals and combat dryness. That’s a lot of things, y’all. AND it comes packaged like a delightful summer soft-serve swirl:

Now there’s no shame in picking something based on looks alone--I mean, otherwise would "The Bachelor" still be on TV? But I’m happy to report that Olay delivers on multiple fronts:

• After a week of use, my skin felt smoother and softer and my lines were less noticeable. 
• Because it corrects tone, it served more or less as a tinted moisturizer, doing away with my need for foundation. 
• It took care of dryness without the need for any additional moisturizers. 
• It gave me that subtle “Who, me? I don’t wear any makeup!” glow. Ding ding ding ding ding! 

Subtle differences, but in the "after" on the right my skin is less red and more--dare I say--dewy. Also I have fewer flyaway hairs. Granted, not Olay's doing, but still. Also part 2: Isn't my shower curtain boss?

I realize that I am wearing the same top and messy bun in the above photos, which I only wish was on purpose. The truth is, I’m a new mom who wears the same nursing bra at least five days a week and never has time to wash her hair. But hey, at least my skin looks good. Thanks, Olay!

What’s your healthy-skin secret? Tell me about it in the comments for the chance to win a $50 Visa gift card!

Rules:

No duplicate comments.
You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:

a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post
b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post
c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post
d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.
This giveaway is open to U.S. Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by email. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.

The Official Rules are available here.

This sweepstakes runs from 4/9 - 5/16

Be sure to visit the Olay TE page on BlogHer.com where you can read other bloggers' reviews and find more chances to win! While we're on the subject of looking good, you might want to check out the "Looking Your Best" posts in the Life Well Lived section of BlogHer.com. There are some great tips and expert posts!

I was compensated and provided free product for this post. The opinions expressed herein are my own.

Face-Testing Olay® Total Effects Tone Correcting UV Moisturizer