Well, not so much a slacker, as I am absurdly busy at work, but potato, potahto, and all that.

I don’t know what the coming week holds, so I’ll just try to cram a whole mess o’ crap into this post, in the event that this week is also a busy one.

Happy Mother’s Day to all my fellow moms! My (first) Mother’s Day was fantastic; I had a leisurely morning, and was served my favorite breakfast (a toasted salt bagel with cream cheese, in case you were curious. Which you undoubtedly are not. Nor can I blame you). We then saw our families, and I was the grateful recipient of a kickass gift from Toopweets: A day at this spa, which will involve a massage, a facial, and other stuff, but I was too busy dancing the Cabbage Patch at the thought of my much-needed massage to focus on the other stuff. My back is busted, people. Thank you, Toops (and J)!

*****

I was reading the New York Times Magazine yesterday, and came across an interesting article, the basic point of which is that living in the age of blogs, MySpace, and YouTube is changing the way that new musicians attract and expand their fan base. I found the whole piece fascinating, but the thing that most excited me (out of the entire, well-written, comprehensive article) was this sentence right here:

“The first hit was an improbable cover song: [The musician’s] deadpan version of the 1992 Sir Mix-a-Lot rap song ‘Baby Got Back,’ performed like a hippie folk ballad.”

Well, well.

The internet altering how musicians find and subsequently interact with fans? A veritable sea change in the theory of music promotion? And perhaps, a shift in the concept of how a musician can actually find success?

Trifles, I say! Bring on the funny song! (And indeed, it is funny.)

*****

Finally, I realized that I haven’t reviewed any products in a while, and I actually have a negative review. Personally, I always find those infinitely more entertaining, as evidenced by The New York Post’s scathing and utterly hilarious review of Ms. Lohan’s new movie, entitled, “It Blohans.” (If you think that I do not plan on using that phrase to describe even the most tangential of Lindsay-related situations going forward, then you are giving me entirely too much credit.)

Anyway, the product in question is this tin of shit:

“Wow!” you’re probably thinking. “ I like lip balm! And I like honey! I simply can’t go wrong with this! What on earth is she talking about?”

Do not be fooled.

Now, I’m a big fan of both lip balm and honey. But I must say, I’ve never before wanted to actually hurl from a lip balm, and I am someone who has experienced morning sickness the likes of which were triggered by even THINKING about the smell of shampoo. But…sweet bastard! The flavor and scent of this…thing is just ungodly. I’ve yet to encounter anything else like it. So far, I’ve detected a profusion of offensive odors in the balm, which are as follows:

~ Funeral home

~ Old, moldy ass

~ The industrial-strength air freshener that they spray after someone tosses their cookies on an indoor roller coaster/virtual reality ride. (This totally happened to me. Well, I wasn’t the culprit, but I was on the ride where it happened. Trust me, that stench will stick with you for a lifetime.)

~ Forgotten gym bag

And, finally, begrudgingly…

~ Honey (Albeit honey which was unearthed after being trapped in the manifold crevices of a Kodiak bear’s nether regions prior to him settling in for hibernation. That honey, and that honey alone.)

Please note: I’ve tried another flavor from this brand (i.e., peach), which was absolutely fine; it’s just this one that you should avoid. Although? I secretly want you to go to the store (it’s carried at Bath& Body Works) and smell it, just so you can see what I’m talking about.

I’m kidding, of course.

(But not really.)

While watching the movie, I arrived at the inevitable Big Super-Important Dance Scene Upon Which the Main Character’s Entire Dancing Career Depends (mandated, of course, by Article 3, Section VI, Subparagraph J of the Dance Movie Code). In this scene, the main character, Jody, dances to a song that I (heretofore) thought was entitled ”Candy in my Heels Tonight.” As I watched the dance scene for the fourth time in a row, I rolled my eyes at this utterly stupid chorus. Hearing this lyric, seemingly about candy in one’s heels, made for a weird mental image, and, me being me, my mind somehow leaped to thinking about OTHER things that might be in one’s heels, which inevitably brought me to this:**

This is seriously how my mind works. Be very afraid.

Skeptical that these could really be the words to the song, I Googled the lyrics, at which point I learned that the actual phrase was CANNED HEAT, not candy.

“What kind of a person has canned heat in their heels?” I thought to myself.

As it turns out, I do.

For you see, I have farting shoes.

Allow me to explain.

In what will surely be a lesson to never clean out and organize my closet ever again, I discovered the offending footwear wayyyy in the back of my closet, buried beneath shoes, some bonus shoes, and just to change things up a bit…SHOES. The fart shoes are black leather flats that I had purchased but never worn, and somehow tossed into the abyss of my closet, forgotten…until now.

Upon discovering the shoes, I was thrilled. I mean, cute black flats? Who doesn’t need those? I decided to forego my planned-upon heels, and wear the black flats the very next day. All was going well until I stood up on the train as it pulled into the station, and I started to exit my seat. I began hearing…a distinctive sound. A sound which at first made me suspect that everyone in my immediate vicinity had eaten truck-stop enchiladas for breakfast. It soon dawned upon me, however, that the sound was coming from MY OWN FEET. Charming. It seemed that something about the shape of the shoes made them expel LOUD puffs of air with each step I took.

“Pfffbbbbt! “PWWWWRRRP!” said my shoes.

My seatmate, a middle-aged guy, looked at me with a mixture of disgust and what seemed to be admiration at my apparent brazen flatulence.

I tried to laugh it off, saying, “Oh, that? It wasn’t me! It was my shoes! Ha ha!” He shrugged…and went back to clandestinely picking his nose. Klassy!

All through the station, my shoes let out these weird, fart-sounding puffs of air. With each fartstep, I died a little inside. Particularly when I realized that my schedule was extremely packed, and would preclude me from having a free moment to stop and purchase a pair of mute footwear.

I attempted to make my way through the day by oh-so-casually gliding everywhere, rather than walking, so as to avoid the telltale noise, but I was no match for these shoes. First of all, I looked batshit insane doing this. Secondly, much like Jaws, the shoes learned from my behavior, and got smarter. I swear: They grew increasingly bold as the day went on, going so far as to make the noise when I merely shifted my weight from one foot to another in my apartment building’s (OBVIOUSLY) crowded elevator. Oh, the other passengers all tried to be nonchalant. But I know what they’ll think the next time they see me. And that thought will be, “Fart girl! Fart girl!” Or alternately, “Hey, here comes Farty!”

Sigh.

I believe with all my heart that I probably would have elicited fewer stares had I worn the leopard-print goldfish shoes.

Tempted as I was just to toss the stupid things, I kept them because If I have a free moment, I may attempt to make a video of myself walking in them so you can see/hear them in action. I’m caring like that. And also crazy.

_____________________

* Very purposefully added it to our NetFlix queue, and did a little jig of glee upon its arrival in our mailbox.

**You will have my undying love if, apropos of the goldfish shoes, this means anything to you: “Uh, your fish are dead.”

The blogging gods (Blods?) have been smiling favorably upon me lately. You see, this past week, they saw fit to grant me the opportunity to meet up with not one but TWO of my favorite bloggers. As you know, I do not shut up about my adoration for the lovely Guinness Girl. We have a fantastic time whenever she’s in town, so I was pleased to no end when she informed me that she was going to be in NYC for training again. Alas, J was going to a Mets game that night, so this time, I could only meet her for a quick drink. Naturally, we made the most of it. Despite traveling through Grand Central Station every weekday, I’ve never been to this adjoining lounge, which is where we decided to go. It’s very old-world banker-ish (if that makes sense to anyone else but me) and has the ambiance of a Prohibition-era speakeasy.

However.

The drinks there are dangerous. From what I observed, all of them had a common theme. And if that theme could talk, it would say “Alcohol?! Gracious heavens, no! Why, there’s nothing of the sort in here! We’re just innocent drinks, and our delicious sweet flavors are not at all a camouflage for the fact that we contain a bathtub’s worth of vodka, scotch, and rum! Hush now, drink up!” No joke. I could just tell that, had I consumed more than one, doing so would have had the unfortunate consequence of me performing my incomparable Christina Aguilera “Genie in a Bottle” dance. (Incomparable, because I’ve never before done it.) And then passing out, and mysteriously waking up in Nebraska. Clad in a bedazzled Celine Dion t-shirt and yellow leggings. Next to a goat named Leopold. With a copy of L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics at my side.

So, fortunately for all, it was just the one drink for me.

Anyway.

Guinness Girl, was, as always, hilarious, and I am continually amazed at her pretty glowiness. How? How do you do it, GG?! Also? She has the best, most fascinating stories EVAH. Seriously. Come back soon, missy!

********

My sudden blogging absence was due to the fact that it was an incredibly busy and generally hectic week for me. (Stop weeping, you guys! Please! I’m back!) Imagine my utter glee, therefore, when the adorable and insanely eloquent Lawyerish e-mailed me to get together for lunch. I naturally said, “Oh hells, yes,” and we met up. The girl is brilliant and witty, but perhaps most importantly, shares my Annie obsession. I was enjoying my time with her so much that I was sad to leave, but the fact that we work mere blocks away from each other cheered me up somewhat. MERE BLOCKS. As did the fact that we made tentative plans to see this, whenever it comes out. Are you not jealous?

Due to my crazy week, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in your lives, but I’ll catch up over the weekend this week. (Damn. Well…this weekend flew.)

I’ll cap this off with my new favorite obsession: A slideshow! (FYI: The little girl playing with Toopweets is my niece.) Oh, and Toopweets? Is going to be 1 in less than a month. Oh, my God.

I need your thoughts here.

This is completely trivial, and has no bearing whatsoever on my life, but still. I MUST KNOW.

I was at a new salon a few days ago, and as I waited there for my appointment, a young girl that I assumed was about 14 or 15 walked in. She sat down and, essentially proving my point, pulled out a geometry textbook. (Well, I think it was a geometry textbook. I’m not what you’d call “a math person.” Triangles and cylinders were involved.) Anyway, I assumed she was there to get her eyebrows shaped, until the receptionist asked her what she wanted done.

Now, I must take a Zack Morris time-out for a second here:

I fear specifying precisely what salon service she was there for, as the Google searches that are coming here lately are mind-bogglingly dirty beyond all human comprehension. Trust me. And so, rather than explicitly stating what it was, I’ll speak in oblique euphemisms, as is my habit. She was there for a…bajillion tankini fax. “Bajillion” in honor of its cost, as well as the level of pain, on a scale of 1-10, that it tends to generate. I know of which I speak. Or so I’ve heard. “Tankini fax” because…well, it (sort of) rhymes.

Sorry to beat around the bush. (Hee! I HAD TO.)

Back to the story:

“[Bajillion tankini fax]!” the young girl said brightly to the receptionist.

The receptionist nodded.

The girl went back to her textbook.

I attempted to maintain an aura of casual indifference.

But inwardly, I felt like this:

My mind raced to find something, anything, to explain why a 14/15-year old was there getting a bajillion.

She could’ve just been a young-looking and dimwitted 20-year old, doing 9^th grade math, right?

Or a tutor, maybe? Going over her pupil’s assignment? Right? Right?!

Perhaps she was a 21 Jump Street-type narc, involved in a covert salon sting operation of some sort? (Note: I desperately wanted this to be true most of all, in the hopes of Johnny Depp, circa 1989, paying us a visit. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d be overjoyed to see Johnny Depp even in his nasty-ass Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas days. Speaking of? I will pay you a bajillion dollars if you can tell me what that movie was actually about. Gah! Digressing.)

But I didn’t think any of these possibilities were actually true, of course.

And that really freaked me out.

I wasn’t her age all that long ago, and as I reflect upon those times, I distinctly recall not one of them involving a bajillion tankini fax. If only there was some way to confirm that, though…

*knock, knock*

Ooh! Look who’s here! My eighth-grade diary! What’s that, eighth-grade diary? An excerpt, you say? Well, okay!

[Boy] and I are really good friends. He is my best friend who is a boy. [Friend] thinks he likes me likes me. Whatever. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Maybe I will invite him to my Gymnastics Jamboree. [2007 Me: Um…Oh, my God?] Oh I love this song! It’s Bermuda, Bahamas. It’s on the radio right now. My other favorite songs right now are: The Sign and Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm. [2007 Me: What the hell kind of song was I talking about?]

I know people say this all the time, but these kids? They’re growing up too fast. What happened to the old days, where young girls talked of crushes and terrible, terrible music with nary a thought of a bajillion fax? And what of the Gymnastics Jamboree?! WHAT OF IT, I SAY? Those were simpler times; better times.

In any case, I’d absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this; I need to know if I’m warranted in finding this a bit crazy, or if I’m totally off-base and behind the times, and in fact, am actually turning into this lady (only with much better lip gloss):

Collette was friends with my roommate, and upon coming to visit said roommate one night early in the year, the two of them launched into the most heart-wrenching duet of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” that I’d ever heard, before or since. For that, I immediately loved her, but it was not until we wound up in the same literature thesis class that we became friends. You know how people have war buddies? Well, Collette and I went through a war, of sorts. You see, our professor…huh. Hmm. How do I put this? At the risk of sounding indelicate, I’ll express our problem with our professor through my world-reknowned acrostic poetry, as I am wont to do:

She was…not young, and had
A very large problem, and
Given that I am nothing if not a refined lady,
God forbid I actually specify to
You what, exactly, it was!

Basically, it was established in our class that
One would do well to look the
Other way when she
Beckoned for you to
See her, on

Account of the…view.
Nobody escaped the wrath of her chestal region
Death Star-like, it pulled us in.**

Need I mention that
Our collective minds were forever scarred? Her

Blouses were always
Really low cut, too.
And loose. Ew.

~Fin~

And so it was that Collette and I bonded over our mutual desire to barf every time our professor leaned forward. That led to actually discussing our coursework (NERDS!), which subsequently evolved into a real friendship, and a standing date with a few of our other friends at this bar almost every Tuesday night throughout senior year.

We’ve kept in close contact since then, and used to get together at least once a month, but lately, it’s been more difficult to find the time. Determined to remedy that, we made plans to get together last night. I arrived a few minutes early at the restaurant, and waited for Collette outside. This proved to be a most fortuitous decision on my part. You know how I have a tendency to attract hobos? And yet, I can never back up my stories with any sort of photographic evidence?

Well, that changes today, people. (Maybe. Read on:)

As I waited for Collette, a hobo in a wheelchair rolled by me with a sign reading “Homeless and disabled! Please! HELP!!!!!” (In the interest of full disclosure, I couldn’t count the actual number of exclamation points, but suffice it to say that they were plentiful.) He glared at me, and in a wholly unexpected turn of events, did not hand me a Jesus card, ask me if he could pet my coat, or tell me that I am “the sexy”. No, he simply staked out a spot on the street corner. As each woman passed, he would shout either “Ho!” or “Mary!” I don’t know upon what criteria he based his determinations, but watching it was like seeing a really insulting grown-up version of “Duck, Duck, Goose” (entitled, of couse, “Ho, Ho, Mary”). Tiring of this activity, the hobo looked around, and got up from his wheelchair. (Faker!)

And proceeded to whip out his hobo man junk.

And pee.

Publicly.

In broad daylight.

He was very (pardon the expression) ballsy about it, too, purposely choosing to get up and go when there was a red light, and the stopped cars would have to see him.

Don’t believe me? Well, I did take a picture of him in action (don’t worry; it’s from behind. and you can’t see anything objectionable), but I hesitate to post it, lest you all think it mean of me to do so. Let me know what you think, and that will determine whether or not I post this most classy of pictures. The power is in your hands!

UPDATE: The vast majority of you have expressed your wish to see the peein’ hobo. Per your request:

Collette arrived shortly thereafter, and we had a lovely time, which only served to remind me how much I adore hanging out with her. The one thing we neglected to discuss, Collette, was our unending debate as to which Manning brother reigns supreme. (Suck it, Eli!) Put it on our dinner agenda for next time! (Oh, yes. We have agendas. We’re relaxed and laid-back like that. It started out as a joke, but now? Not so much.)

**********

Finally, you guys rocked with your shorts-suit advice. I love you. I think I will buy the suit, and if nothing else, just wear the pieces separately. Also? Thank you for your sweet comments on Toopweets. He really does smile most of the time. The following picture, however, represents those rare occasions when he does not:

Because I can’t leave you with that, here he is, dressed up at Turtle from Entourage. I have no excuse or explanation, other than that it was raining, and I was bored.

* Not her real name. It is the name she supplies when she’s out, and annoying men (who I imagine look like this) approach her, and will not go away:

** Is that an accurate analogy? I’ve never seen Star Wars, so I’m just guessing here.

(Mainly because I’m testing out lovely slideshow feature in my new Photobucket account. Sorry to use you in such a fashion.)

Also? Pretty please help me with the following: Is this look office-appropriate? I’m asking because while I think the suit is adorable, I can’t see myself wearing (what technically equates to) shorts at work. Unless, of course, this is The New Thing, and once again, as with the leggings that seem to have descended upon us, unbidden, I find myself unable to adapt. Please advise.

Actual cohesive blog post will follow once I finish reorganizing my closet. (So…approximately September ’09.)

(And then, if you’re really like me, you’ll wonder why you can never pronounce “indignant” properly, whether or not you should say something to your crazy neighbor about her penchant for relieving stress by bouncing a rubber ball repeatedly against your shared wall, and if it’s a problem that you’ve had 3, count e’m, 3 fudgesicles so far today. )

Well, I’m taking a stand. No longer will I be shackled by my fears! The following item may not be terribly funny to you, but by gum,* I think it’s utterly uproarious. **

First, a bit of background. One of my brothers is also into photography. While on our recent trip to my parents’ house (wherein we encountered the Doll of Dirrrty), I went through his photography books to see if there was anything I could borrow. Among the actual, helpful books, I also found a small photography book from the 1950’s, which he had picked up for its comedic value at a vintage bookstore. I can’t adequately convey the hilarity of the tone in which this book was written. It’s definitely a product of its time, with such gems as how to get the best shots of a “vivacious model, full of pep and enthusiasm.” There is also useful advice, like “Never use your photography as a means of…getting a girl out in the woods.” The whole thing reminds me of this:

Best of all, though, is the introduction to the book itself. Now, there is no possible way for me to do justice to the Best Foreword Ever Written, so here it is:

My friends, meet Peter Gowland…photographer of women! The greatest pin-up artist of them all! I did some research, and though it seems that he actually has some clout, the foreword contains what is no doubt some of the most over-the-top prose ever written by the hand of man. (See? I can do it, too!)

It is now my goal to live a life that will one day inspire someone to write something like this about me.

************

Speaking of photography, I now submit to you a picture I took (albeit with my camera phone), which is Exhibit # 1,034,459 in the “Hot Damn! I’m a Pervert!” file:

I am a grown-up.

I pay taxes, go food shopping, and other grown-uppy things.

I am someone’s mother, for God’s sake.

And yet? I COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING AT THE NAME OF THIS ICE CREAM.

I STILL CAN’T.

I’m sorry, but “Milky Pleasures”?! I’m not made of stone!

Send help.

***********

And finally, the winner of the “grossest drink” contest is Stephanie. I think you’ll agree that this prize is well-deserved:

“…[T]hey called it a “bloody tampon.” It’s Yukon Jack® Canadian whisky, lemon juice, tequila, vodka, vegetable juice, Bailey’s® Irish cream. You put the lemon juice in at the end, which causes the cream to curdle and become somewhat tampon-shaped.”

Now, the drink’s name alone is gag-inducing, but the combination of ingredients, plus that visual? Well, it just makes me want to hurl. Congratulations, Stephanie! Send me your address, and your prize will be on its way.

________________________________

*That would be the coal miner talking again.

**(I saw that I had written “funny” and “hilarious” like twelve times already, and, inspired by -R-’s recent post, thought to myself, “What word would James Lipton use?”)