Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String (A Few of My Favorite Things)

I enjoy reading the blog of my old high school soccer teammate, Dorothea Coelho, and she does this cool thing: Every Friday she writes a "Stuff That I Love" feature, outlining a few products she thinks are awesome. What a great idea! So, with credit to Dorothea--who was just about the coolest girl at Belmont High--and inspiration from one of my favorite movies, I've decided to publish a post every Tuesday called "Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String (A Few of My Favorite Things)," in which I review three things I adore.*

Here we go!

Bio-Oil

I've noticed that lot of natural/organic skin lotions and creams tout their formula as being "mineral oil-free." Now, I don't know what's so bad about mineral oil, but if you have a problem with it, stay away from Bio-Oil. If it's not an issue, however, rush out to the drug store and buy some NOW. Because this stuff is great! You can use it to moisturize, reduce the appearance of stretch marks and scars, even out skin tone, and remove makeup. Yes, it's oil, but it doesn't feel greasy, so you can even put it on your face without it being gross. I swear, the skin on my post-pregnancy belly has become smoother since using this stuff! It smells great, too. About $11-12 for a 2-oz. bottle. www.bio-oil.com


CitiBlocs

My son received these wooden building blocks for his fifth birthday a few months ago, and we've been enjoying their limitless possibilities ever since. What a simple and wonderful concept! They are all the same size--"precision cut" says the website, and I believe it (they are smoooooth)--but they come in gorgeous, saturated colors that turn your creations into works of art. It's won a bunch of awards, including the Oppenheim Toy Portfolio award. Made out of Grade A Radiata pine (whatever that means) that comes from certified renewable forests, they're green as well! There are no missing pieces and no instructions to frustrate parents and kids (though building suggestions are included). You can get a box of 100 pieces for $19.99-$24.99. www.citiblocs.com



TouchBack Hair Color Marker

Getting your hair professionally colored at the salon can run you a fortune these days, and do-it-yourself dyes are messy and a pain. Personally, I can still get away with at-home color, but what used to last me eight weeks is now good for six tops. A month after I color, the grays really start to bum me out. That's where the TouchBack Marker comes in. It's exactly what the name suggests: hair color in a marker. You put it on dry hair roots to cover the grays. It only takes a minute to apply, then won't come off when you brush or comb your hair, yet it washes out easily. It comes in eight shades and costs $29.95. I've had mine for about six months and it still works great. www.touchbackgray.com



* All endorsements are unpaid.

What I Learned From Reading "Bossypants"

To all my funny and fiercely intelligent (yet awkward) friends from back in our Middle School days, here's something you should know: Tiny Fey is one of us!

She's an ex-geek, but she had just enough going on that she didn't end up a total loser. She took the pain and ostracism she experienced in her tween and teen years, mined it for material, and turned in into comedic gold.

The first thing I learned from reading Tina Fey's book Bossypants is how to prevent your dorky kid from getting so bullied that you have to switch school districts. Here's what Tina suggests. Your nerd spawn must:

1. Have a sense of humor;
2. Have a friend--just one is necessary, but it's preferable that he's gay;
3. Find one thing that he or she is good at.

I also learned how to raise a daughter who is "an achievement-oriented, drug-free, adult virgin" (something that all parents of girls want). Your daughter must experience and/or have:

1. Bad skin;
2. A childhood calamity (Tina Fey's face was slashed by a stranger);
3. A ridiculous amount of parental praise;
4. Involvement in local theater;
3. A strong father-figure/fear thereof.

Ms. Fey didn't lose her virginity until she was well into her twenties. Now, I certainly wouldn't wish a childhood calamity on my little princess, but nor do I want her starring in the 20th season of 16 and Pregnant. So I'm pretty much willing to try any old cockamamie idea if it might possibly spare my babygirl heartbreak and STDs.

I also learned that Tina Fey is a true child of the 1980's, as evidenced by this photo:

Tina Fey, 1988

As Tina explains, buying this white denim suit is the moment she associates with entering womanhood:

I bought it with my own money under the advisement of my cool friend Sandee. I wore it to Senior Awards Night 1988, where it blew people's minds as I accepted the Sunday School Scholorship. That turned-up collar. The jacket that zipped all the way down the front into a nice fitted shape. 

That's hard-core 80's right there.

I would recommend Bossypants to serious Tina Fey fans only. It's an amusing look at this talented lady's childhood, with anecdotes that anyone raised in the late 70's-early 80's will relate to. She also provides some interesting insider information: After 9/11, when Anthrax was found at 30 Rock (where SNL is based) Ms. Fey, who was then head writer and "Weekend Update" co-anchor, walked out and didn't return until Lorne Michaels sweet-talked her back.

But the book contains no real groundbreaking info, unless you consider the fact that Sarah Palin, when she appeared on SNL, offered her daughter Bristol to babysit Tina's toddler groundbreaking.

Don't pay full-price for the hardcover, but if you can get it from your local library, I promise you won't regret it: it's a great beach-read or a the perfect airplane companion. If you are a Tina Fey fan, don't miss it.

There Goes "Thou Shall Not Covet"

At my age, I probably shouldn't still be succumbing to ridiculous and expensive trends, right? Because that kind of nonsense is nothing but youthful folly. Then why did I find myself caving in and buying some Hunter rain boots yesterday?

The boots I bought

I don't know how long these boots have been "in" (probably for ages), but I only began noticing them a year or two ago. They're pretty ugly, but after the insanely wet early spring we had around here, I found myself jealously eyeing the stylish moms I'd see wearing them; they were nice and dry, while I walked around for month straight with soaking wet feet and sodden pant hems. The boots started looking really good to me.

I could tell by which moms wore Hunter boots that they wouldn't come cheap. I looked online and found that, yup, they are at least $125. I tried Ebay, but they aren't cheap there, either. Once I realized how expensive and trendy they are, that was it: I HAD TO HAVE THEM.

But they're way too expensive! I told myself. And they're ugly! And I don't live in an English manor house or keep horses or have an extensive rose garden to tend! Nothing worked: Every time it rained, I was pissed I wasn't wearing them.

I got angry at myself. What the heck was going on? I felt like I did back in fifth grade when I just HAD TO HAVE A PAIR OF CLOGS OR I WOULD DIE. Or seventh grade when it was all about the perfect Nikes.

The clogs I HAD TO have in 1979,
but mine were a burgundy color

The Nikes I NEEDED in 1981,
but my swoosh was sky blue

Why do silly fashion trends still influence me so? I wish I could say I've grown out of it, but that's not the case. I don't go crazy with the name-brands, and I'm not a big shopper at all, but it bugs me that I'm still so affected by what "everyone else" is wearing or doing. After all, my kids own Crocs and not the cheap knock-off brands, even though they're too young to know the difference or care. Spending the extra $20 a pair for the real thing is 100% for my benefit.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and blame it on my parents. I never got name-brand stuff when I was a kid. No Calvins for this girl--it was crummy Lees all the way. And I remember having this polo-type shirt, but instead of the Izod alligator, there was some other stupid animal on my budding boob. It was mortifying.

That was the case for just about everything. My English/Scottish mother, who grew up during WWII with bombings and rationing, was slow to warm to America's capitalist and consumerist ways. She didn't understand the younger generation's obsession with wearing the correct label. And my dad, well, it was the 70's; dads then didn't bother themselves with such mundane household issues.

Back then, I was constantly coveting some trendy brand or another: Sweats bi Ebe (or Chego), Bermuda bags (made from real wood, not crappy plastic like the one I had), Jordache jeans, Capezios, Izod shirts, Members Only jackets, L.L. Bean Bluchers, the latest Swatch watch. It was never-ending.

And here I am, thirty years later, still wanting what the cool girls have. At least these days, I don't have to ask my mom to buy it for me.

Oh, Deer!

I do not love days like I had today. Nothing terrible happened but nothing fun did, either. The day went from nauseating to annoying to aggravating. It was just your average, sucky day.

Beginning the day with a doctor's appointment is never a positive omen, so I can't say I was expecting laughter and merriment, but neither was I anticipating blood and death. Luckily the gore was only of the deer-hit-by-car variety (unlucky for the deer, however), but it was still nasty. Living in Westchester, we certainly see a lot of deer around (I hit one with my car a few short weeks after moving here from the city--talk about a rude suburban awakening!) but what we don't see a lot of are guns.

The deer looked just like this one--
except it was lying by the road
with blood pouring out of its head.

So, when, at 8:30 this morning, some civilian standing in the road put his hand up to stop traffic and I watched as a State Trooper marched across the street with what looked like a rifle in his hands (but was actually a shotgun according to my cop friend Pete--who knew those suckers were so big?), I was transfixed. Mesmerized even. Then BANG! That's when I saw the deer lying by the side of the road up.

"Oh, God" I moaned.

"What is it?" inquired my son from the back seat. "What was that noise?"

Then another shot. Agghhh! Did the cop not kill the deer with the first one? Travesty!

"What was that loud noise? asked my son again.

By now we were being waved through. I didn't respond until we'd passed the deer (a pool of blood around its head), because I didn't want my son to look out his window and see the carnage. Luckily, his attention was diverted by the police car on the other side of the street.

It wasn't until we were pulling into the doctor's parking lot a minute later that I told him what had happened. He had a lot of questions: Why did they have to kill the deer? Why didn't they take it to the vet to be fixed? Why did they have to shoot it twice?

The rest of the day was...eh. My daughter's doctor's appointment went fine. No shots, which was awesome--last thing I wanted was to see more blood--but I was disappointed that the doctor couldn't give me any suggestions about how to get my daughter to stop biting her nails down so low that they sometimes bled.

"Every kid has their own particular bad habit," she reassured me. Gee, thanks.

Then we stopped by DD for doughnuts (Tuesday is our official Doughnut Day).

"That's something nice that happened to you today!" is what you are probably saying to yourself right now. Well, it would be if I actually allowed myself to eat a doughnut. But no, I just get a strawberry frosted with sprinkles for the girl and maple frosted with sprinkles for the boy. It's bikini season, after all.

After my daughter's Tiny Ballerinas class, we returned home, where my kids proceeded to try my patience, as per usual. My daughter wouldn't take her (much needed) nap, and then my son had a massive meltdown all because I was about to beat him at Chutes and Ladders (he's five--finally old enough to lose now and then). It was extra-annoying because five minutes earlier he'd beaten me fair and square at Candy Land.

"You can't win every time, you know!"

And, hey, losing at Chutes and Ladders isn't such a bad way to learn this lesson. The deer? She had to learn the hard way.

Lady Madonna

Last night, I caught a bit of the HBO special, "Lady Gaga Presents the Monster Ball Tour: At Madison Square Garden." As I was watching, I realized I used to sing along with Gaga and watch her bump & grind 25 years ago--back when she went by the name "Madonna."

First, let me just say that I don't know lots about Gaga: The only songs I know are the ones I hear on the car radio (yes, I still listen to radio, I'm old school like that), and while I've watched a number of her performances on TV, I've never seen her live.

And while I was bombarded with Madonna during my formative years, I've never purchased one of her albums or seen her live, either. But I've certainly heard her songs countless times, seen her videos over and over, and watched her perform on TV enough to be familiar with her repertoire.

I'm familiar enough with both artists to know I'm onto something. I'm aware people have been comparing the two performers since Gaga first came on the scene (like in this SNL skit from 2009), but at that time, it was mainly their images that were similar. Well, Lady Gaga sure has been ramping things up since then.

A few months ago I was listening to Gaga's brand new single, "Born This Way," and found myself humming along. How the heck did I know the melody when I'd never even heard the song before? Then, just as the chorus was about to come in, I started singing, "Express yourself! (You've got to make him) express himself, hey, hey, hey, hey."

Turns out it's the exact same song.

And it doesn't just stop there. Gaga's "Alejandro" and "La Isla Bonita" are extremely similar (with a little of ABBA's "Fernando" thrown in as well). What I can't figure out is why Madonna isn't suing her.



It's not just the music, either. Here are other things Lady Gaga has in common with Madonna: studded cone bra, dance moves, black leotard-esque get-ups, black fishnets, bleached hair, religious imagery (Judas, Mary, Jesus), an Italian heritage, gay dancers with whom she simulates sex, and even a similar way of warming up the crowd by sharing personal stories about her outcast days. It just goes on and on!

Here's how they're different: Lady Gaga can actually sing and play the piano! But Madonna was a better dancer and had more interesting boyfriends.

I enjoy listening to Lady Gaga now and then, I really do, but at this point, I always end up comparing her to Madonna and trying to figure out what melody, lyric, or dance move she stole from her this time. And that's too bad, because while I suspect Lady Gaga might actually be more talented than Madonna, she'll just always be a copy-cat to me.

Freaks, Band Geeks, and X-Rated Movies

The other day, I was telling/yelling at one of my kids to "C'mon, do it, already! Do it!" (about who knows what), and then later on, I found myself humming "Do it, do it" under my breath. I started laughing because it reminded me of a funny story, which I will now tell.

Yes, that's really me, circa '86 or '87

Back in high school I played the clarinet in the band. Yes, I know I've just crushed the image you had of me as a confident, sophisticated, well-dressed, popular teen, but the reality is that I took A/P classes and was in the marching band. But in my defense, I was as cool as a girl with a plume coming out of her hat could be.

Our school's band happened to be excellent, so we occasionally traveled to competitions where we had to stay in hotels overnight. After one competition (to Quebec, maybe?), we were all on the bus heading back home, when some boys in the very back started singing a song: It started softly, almost a whisper, "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, do it," then got louder, "DO IT, DO IT, D-D-D-DO IT, DO IT," and on and on, louder and louder.

Turns out it was the theme song from a porn flick they'd ordered at the hotel. Thirty seconds into it and just about every boy on that bus was singing along. Yes, they were all under 18 and yes, they got into trouble (well, sort of...not really...they just had to pay the porn rental charges.)

Bus ride home after a band trip to Quebec, 1986. This
may (or may not) have been the "Do it, do it" ride.

It was one of those crazy moments that are both hysterical and educational. Sure my girlfriends and I laughed and laughed, but we also learned something: Teenage boys do actually like to watch porn! I don't think we ever knew that for sure before that day.

Fast-forward 15 years or so, and my then-boyfriend and I were renting a movie from my local place in the West Village. (Remember that? Renting movies?) I don't recall what movie we had rented, but I'm sure it was rated PG. The reason I know this is because of my shock when the following happened: We popped in the DVD and the opening credits came on, accompanied by blurry, flesh-colored images that were back-lit in blood-red. Then we heard,  oh-so-softly, "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, do it," and again, louder and louder.

Something went ding! ding! ding! in my brain, but not until the blurry images came into focus and we were able to see that they were actually naked bodies, did the pieces fall into place. It was THAT MOVIE! I hadn't thought of the high school bus episode since it had happened 15 years earlier but, wow, that song brought it all back in vivid detail.

Yup, an X-rated DVD had mistakenly been put into a PG-rated, family flick box.

I don't recall if my boyfriend and I watched the whole flick. I don't think so--I'm sure, like all porns, it was lacking in plot and got boring after the first 15 minutes. But what I do remember is marching back to the video place and blasting them for their mistake: "Do you realize this is a family film?! A child could've been watching! How could this have happened?"

The slacker dude (this was in the 90's before hipsters were invented) just sort of shrugged and thanked me for pointing out the mistake. I was disappointed because I thought I'd at least be offered a free rental for my troubles. But no.

I wish I could remember the name of the "Do it" porn movie--just for old time's sake, get your head out of the gutter!--but I can't. And a quick Google search of "'Do it, do it' porn song" did not yield any web pages that I dared click on. So here I am, left wondering.

Unless anyone can enlighten me? Anyone?

"Remember When You Used to Be a Rascal?"

My parents were in town visiting for a couple days, and they were nice enough to put the kids to bed last night while my husband and I had the rare chance to attend an actual rock 'n' roll show in Manhattan.

I've been a huge Arctic Monkeys fan ever since I first saw them play live three-and-a-half years ago in Central Park. Alex Turner's intelligent and often surprising lyrics, the band's tendency to change tempo mid-song, and the complex riffs impressed me. The band has been in heavy rotation on my iPod ever since (especially my "Running Songs" playlist--it's impossible not to turn your jog into a sprint while listening to "Brianstorm").

So when I heard they were playing Rumsey Playfield in Central Park again, I had to get tickets.

My husband and I took the train in, then made our way uptown. We took a taxi because I was wearing brand-new wedge heels and wasn't sure how much walking I could do. (This was less about style than practicality: I always wear heels to general-seating shows because I'm too short to see anything in flats.) There was traffic, but luckily we were in no rush.

Once at Central Park, we meandered down the paths toward Rumsey Playfield. Then THE LINE came into view. More traffic--this time of the human variety. For some reason, even though the venue's doors had been open for over an hour and the warm-up band (The Vaccines) was almost done with their set, there was a massive, snaking line for ticket-holders. The line turned out to have no purpose whatsoever, but since the Arctic Monkeys weren't due on for at least a half-hour, I didn't care. I was just happy to be out in Manhattan.

Once inside the venue, we again queued up--this time for $8 beers--and then made our way toward the stage. The band emerged to the strains of "American Woman" by The Guess Who playing over the sound system. Kinda a huge cliche, but they're just young boys from Sheffield, England, so what do they know?

The only negative about going to concerts with my husband is this: Because he's tall and gets claustrophobic in crowds, he likes to stand toward the back, but because I'm short and enjoy getting caught up in the action, I like pushing my way to the front. So I always end up going it alone. We arranged a meeting place just in case, and I headed into the crowd.

I had only gone about 20 feet, though, when some weird barrier system prevented me from getting any closer. I settled in and checked out my surroundings. Clean cut twenty-something dude with madras shirt on my left, clean cut twenty-something dude with madras shirt on my right. And they didn't even know each other. (Since when is Hipster out and Prepster in?)

Arctic Monkeys, Central Park, 5-24-11

The moment the band started playing, out popped the iPhones. Argh, the iPhones! I completely understand taking a photo or two, or even shooting a 60-second video, but people were practically recording the whole concert! Why bother seeing them live if you're going to watch the entire show through a 3.5-inch screen?

The only other thing that bugged me was the smoking. I don't think I've even seen an actual, real-life cigarette in months, let alone breathed in the smoke from one, so when both of the clean cut dudes sparked up at once, I started reconsidering my choice of viewing spots. I hadn't minded so much when it was a doobie burning away, but the cigs were killing me. I tried not to be a fuddy-duddy, though, and persevered.

I had figured my husband and I would be the oldest people there, but was pleasantly surprised to see a few other folks in their late 30's to early 40's rocking out. The average age was still under 30, though, which made listening to hundreds of young people sing/scream the following lyrics from "I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor" a bit surreal:

Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand. 
And lighting the fuse might result in a bang b-b-bang! Go!
I bet that you look good on the dance floor.
I don't know if you're looking for romance or, I don't know what you're lookin' for.
I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor!
Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984. Well, from 1984!

Did the kids there even get the Rio reference? Did they even know what it meant to dance like a robot? Were they even alive in 1984?

We had a great time. The band sounded awesome, the crowd was totally into it, the weather was perfect, and my new shoes only hurt a little. I eventually rejoined my husband in the back (when the Madras Men simultaneously lit up smokes for the third time), and we enjoyed the encore of their hit (in England, anyway) "Fluorescent Adolescent" together. Considering we were an old married couple at a rock show, surrounded by a bunch of twenty-somethings, the lyrics were perfect:

You used to get it in your fishnets,
Now you only get it in your nightdress.
Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness,
Landed in a very common crisis.
Everything's in order in a black hole,
Nothing seems as pretty as the past, though.
That Bloody Mary's lacking in Tabasco.
Remember when you used to be a rascal?

I may not be a rascal anymore, and, yes, occasionally my life does feel like an orderly black hole, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten how to have fun. Nor would I give up the life I have now to be one of those twenty-somethings again.

Thank you, Arctic Monkeys, for reminding me of what I sometimes forget.