AB Chao Design Camp DC: Hoarding, Crying & Other Assorted Awesomeness

So remind me to tell you about the time AB Chao bought me a shot of bourbon and drunk-dialed Heather Armstrong. And then promptly shoved the phone at my drunken ass while I shrieked in panic.

I JUST WANTED A PICTURE. YOU CAN'T DISAPPOINT A PICTURE.

Later, I burst into drunken tears at the table while explaining to all the other lovely DC Design Camp attendees how AB and I know each other because you guys. You guyyyyyyssss. This. This right here. This lady and you people and the Internet and blogging and the ENTIRE PATH OF MY LIFE, plus also the universe and everything.

Yes. I am very fun at parties. Always bring a towel, mostly because I will definitely spill something.

(Yesterday it was coffee. I got up mid-session to refill my coffee and unscrewed the lid on an apparently still very full to-go container and coffee just fucking erupted out of the thing, all over me and the floor and like, inside drawers and cabinets and shit. And once again, I stood there doing little else besides PANICKED SHRIEKING because I have no coping skills.)

LAY OFF ME I'M TRYING.

My point is that I had a fantastic weekend. Like, teh best. I learned so much and had even more fun. There was much laughter and champagne (sabering!) and cupcakes and really inappropriate jokes about grommet-top curtains and vagina baskets. My brain is full of so many awesome decorating ideas (I am going to rearrange the SHIT out of some furniture, people) and my phone is full of awesome new contacts/future drinking buddies who are all mysteriously flashing me metal horns and/or their cleavage. 

Plus, on the Metro ride home, I totally got hit on. Like "what kinda pics u got on dat cameraaaaa phone, hot mom lady" hit on. I have not been flirted with that hilariously (or, okay, at all) in ages. He lost my heart (and my smokin' mom ass) when he said he was only down with "ladies marryin' laaaadies, but not like, dudes, cuz gross." I was like, UR FACE IS GROSS. Also, how did we even get on this topic? Also also, I do not believe that you are a male model in from Los Angeles. I would suggest a better cover story, seeing as it clearly did not get you anywhere with the laaaaadies and you're here desperately trying to pick up a bedraggled mother of three on the Red Line at like, 7:45 pm. Hot Mom Lady, OUT. Because she's really tired, and this is her stop.

Anyway, if you're in the Chicago area I highly recommend attending the mini camp in December. Buy AB a shot of bourbon and tell her to drunk dial me. 

What's Black & White &...aw man this sucks

Well, which IS it, Cereal Box? WHICH IS IT?

Not all black and white? Or pretty black and white. YOU CAN'T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS. STOP TOYING WITH ME. 

Especially in light of the National Zoo's devastating loss of the newborn panda cub this weekend. Which: No joke or snark, I am UPSET. I am feeling genuine feelings of feelingsosity and I don't like it. This goes against every word I've ever written about The Fucking Zoo and how it Fucking Sucks because it's Outside and Full Of Nature and Pooping Things and also Uphill In Every Possible Direction. But there it is. I am really terribly sad and bummed about the poor tiny wittle baby panda and the poor sad mama panda and DAMMIT, NATURE. YOU REALLY ARE THE WORST.

Also the worst: Me, for deciding to tell Noah about the baby panda yesterday morning, while he pondered the above cereal box and asked questions about pandas and hey! Speaking of pandas! There's a brand-new miracle panda baby at the zoo that we can maybe go see in a couple months!

And of course Noah — since he is NOT a bitter jaded Zoo-person like his mother who thinks the pandas are kind of overrated and not worth the line because they just SIT THERE and chew on leaves while the tourists are all OMFG PANDAS PANDAS PANDAS — thought this sounded excellent! Very exciting! Can we go today? Tomorrow? Today? 

I totally jinxed that poor baby panda and I feel terrible about it. And now I have to decide between telling my child the truth or inventing a cover story about how the baby panda went to go live on a nice big wide-open bamboo farm in China. 

***

Ugh. This is too depressing for a Monday. Let's look at some pictures instead, from earlier in the weekend when life was happy and fun and baby pandas lived forever.

BONUS OF WHAT THE ACTUAL LIVING HELL, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW, NOT-SO-BABY IKE:

Rock Out With Your Kraut Out

This post is sponsored by Kraut Rocks

I've written about the semi-complicated process of sponsored posts. I love them, I need them, I also kind of fear them because I tend to overthink them. What if the client hates it? What if you guys hate it? Cue the self-doubt-fueled writer's block gaaaaahhhhhhhhh.

But then sometimes a sponsored post comes along that involves hanging out with an old friend, gossiping, drinking beer and cooking mussels and hot dogs and sauerkraut over an open flame on a bar counter wait WHAT.

There's a month-long sauerkrautaganza going on in D.C. right now called Kraut Rocks. Top Chef's Spike Mendolsohn is the host and several other local chefs are featuring their take on sauerkraut on their menus. I was asked to write a post about it. 

Amy's Mouth: Sure! Why not?

Amy's Brain: Why not? You mean other than the little fact that you don't particularly like sauerkraut? 

Amy's Wallet: QUIET, YOU FOOL.

At first I thought maybe I would do a cooking demonstration of my own, or we could visit one of the participating restaurants and photograph me attempting to gain a new appreciation of sauerkraut the superfood, but then when I saw the final list of chefs I remembered that OH YEAH, THIS HAPPENED. 

"This" = appearing as a judge on an episode of Throwdown With Bobby Flay, once a upon a time, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away where I only had ONE CHILD and was only about 10 weeks pregnant with Ezra. 

As I (repeatedly) mentioned in my posts about it, Throwdown judges are punked right along with the local chef. In our case, the local chef was Teddy Folkman of Granville Moore's. We've been buds ever since. 

(You may also remember him — or a totally unfairly edited, pretty much fictional version of him — from The Next Food Network Star. He's shrugged that one off; I still get rage-face-y over it. SHUT UP TELEVISION YOU ARE FULL OF LIES.)

ANYWAY.

(Holy cats, this is the longest wind-up ever, no?)

Teddy seemed like 1) the perfect person to re-introduce me to the wonders of the kraut, and 2) the perfect opportunity to get paid for doing something I'd totally do for free. 

In this case, consume some alcohol and then come dangerously close to setting my hair on fire.

(Look at those percentages. LOOK AT THEM.)

(Look at how well this could end. LOOK AT IT.)

Teddy, being awesome AND a fairly regular, long-time reader of this very blog, came up with a pantry-raid idea for our little cooking experiment. He grabbed a ton of typical kid-friendly ingredients and other stuff most of us are likely to have on hand, and proceeded to explain that you could make a broth for mussels (his specialty) with just about all of them. 

Right down to the dehydrated cheese packet in a box of macaroni-and-cheese.

(Cook milk, butter and shredded real cheese with powdered cheez product, add mussels, serve over the pasta and favorite chopped herbs.)

It was like an episode of Chopped. Only drunk. 

Then he put me to work on our Frankenkraut creation.

My crowning contribution to the proceedings: I can chop hot dog coins like nobody's bizness, yo. 

He offered to let me actually cook the mussels, at which point I put down the knife and laffed and laffed, because dude. I like you. I really don't want to burn your restaurant down.

So, into the pan went:

Butter

Sage

Hot dogs

Sauerkraut

Spicy mustard

An apple juice box

Beer (a pilsner)

And mussels.

...

You guys.

YOU GUYS. 

AH NOM NOM NOM.

These suckers smelled amazing. The sauerkraut broth? So full of win. I loved it. I am totally stealing it. I am brining my Thanksgiving turkey in it. I am going on a sauerkraut recipe bender AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME. 

KRAUT ROCKS!

*drops mic*

Here's a video of Teddy making another version of kraut mussels and then drinking beer with Spike, Mike Isabella and Ryan Wheeler. So basically a recreation of our cooking session, only with more talent and dignity.

(Locals can actually order this dish at Granville Moore's this month...the rest of you GET IN THE KITCHEN AN' MAKE ME SUM MUSSELS)

Giveaway! Check out the recipes and pick a favorite. Tell me which it is and win a $100 prize pack (t-shirt, coffee mug, one of those beer steins from the video that I am TOTALLY COVETING and a restaurant gift card).

Let's Go To The Zoo, Part Four

I believe I have made my feelings about the zoo known already. Several times, in fact. Wait, here's one more. 

So going to the zoo yesterday was the very definition of insanity, or completely understandable because my in-laws were visiting and getting out of the house is unbelievably critical because otherwise we all sit around while my mother-in-law helpfully folds my underwear in the living room and my father-in-law watches his laptop defrag for a couple hours. Not this time, I decided. So help me God, we will go to the fucking zoo and like it. 

CAN YOU NOT SENSE OUR COLLECTIVE JOY?

WAKE ME UP WHEN AMERICA REALIZES THAT PANDAS ARE THE MOST BORING ANIMALS EVER.

Noah and Ezra, to their credit, had less than zero interest in those dumb overrated pandas anyway. They wanted snakes. Lots of snakes. Are we at the snakes yet? Yeah, elephants, okay, whatever, OH DEAR GOD PLEASE TAKE US TO THE SNAKES.

Amy: If I'd known they were that into snakes we coulda just stayed home and sent 'em into the basement with a shovel and some flashlights.

Jason: A...shovel? 

Amy: I don't know. It just sounded right. Wiffle bats, maybe?

We spent a long, long time in the reptile house, pointing uselessly at windows.

LOOK LOOK IT'S OVER THERE CAN'T YOU SEE IT I MEAN I AM POINTING RIGHT AT ITS GENERAL DIRECTION FROM 10 FEET AWAY JESUS CHRIST NEVER MIND IT'S JUST A DAMN TURTLE ANYWAY.

Okay, that's more like it.

That's...probably actually a stick. Good pointing, though! 

And that's...locked, right? Seriously, I would not put anything past this one. 

It's hilarious, of course, that I have boys who love snakes and lizards and other scaly weird things. A love that has obviously developed entirely independent of me. Because no. Not really a fan. I spent about 15 minutes trying to get them to even look at a freaking lemur later in the day (IT'S SO FLUFFEEEEE), but no. If it wasn't a giant ass snake, it had to at least have giant ass teeth for it even register on their interest radar.  

But I do a good job around them of swallowing my general terror of...well, ALL OF IT.

HI THERE. I AM GOING TO KILL YOU. JUST FYI.

Ezra was not afraid of any of the snakes or lizards or other assorted helldemons in the reptile house, but was kind of freaked out by the monkeys. Especially once the orangutan went all King Kong across the famous O Line. 

GAH NATURE IT'S JUST SO HORRIFYINGLY REAL SOMETIMES

(Note that a zoo employee will guard the sidewalk underneath and warn you that yes, people totally do get pooped on, so best wait until he's across to keep walking.)

Ezra liked this fascinating exhibit about plastic trash cans much better. 

BUKKITS!

Ike woke up some time around the tigers and remained unimpressed with everything except boobs and also boobs. 

(And before anyone has to even ask, shout-out to Red Charlotte on Etsy for the Ergo sucking/drool pads that Ike is quietly, discreetly slimeing on in this photo. I also highly recommend her Stuff Sacks for keeping your baby carriers from taking over your house and life with their octopi-like strappiness. Mine matches my drool pads, because OF COURSE IT DOES.) 

After the snakes, Noah requested dinosaurs. Um. Well, honey, the thing is...

Aha! Wot's this?

And for once, zoo did not disappoint. At all. 

Crowd Control

We spent the weekend -- the entire weekend, for reasons I cannot remember -- going places and doing things with and for the kids. All three of 'em. 

SPOILER ALERT: Going places and doing things sucks. 

On Friday we hauled everyone to the movie theater for Cars 2. (The boys loved it. LOVED IT! And I did not completely hate it! And the screaming baby in the theater did not belong to me! A victory all around, except for the part where we got out the door so incredibly late that popcorn had to count as everyone's dinner.)

On Sunday we went to the pool. (I wore a bikini! That nobody saw, because I did not take the maternity dress I wore as a cover-up off for even a single minute. I sat in the shade and held the baby for a secondary layer of postpartum-belly-camouflage.)

And wedged in between: Saturday. Oh, my heavenly lord. On Saturday we trekked into DC proper for a big barbecue battle-slash-street-festival. I hoped to eat some decent ribs and have a beer or two; I spent the entire afternoon pushing a double stroller around the kiddie section of the event, which was far, far away from the food and especially the beer, while alternately:

1) Barking at the wild and free and unleashed five-and-a-half-year-old to COME HERE, COME HERE, STAY CLOSE, WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING COMEHERE COMEHERECOMEHERE.

2) Apologizing to the toddler occupant of the double stroller who wanted out because he NEVER RIDES IN A STROLLER ANYMORE, WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS BULLSHIT, but I'm sorry, Mommy and Daddy are outnumbered, your butt is staying contained.

3) Looking for shady, semi-private places to breastfeed that were not porto-potties. 

Jason and I never managed to sample more than two or three plates of food, we never made it down to and of the actual BBQ competition events, I never got to sign up for the Man v. Food Nation Hot Wing Challenges that were taking place every half hour that I WOULD HAVE KILLED AT, I WATCH THAT SHOW, I KNOW THE STRATEGY. We left after less than three hours but I swear, it felt like at least eight or 10. 

But.

Man. Good times. I can't wait until this weekend when we get to totally blow their little minds with some fireworks. 

(Not Yet) Born This Way

Or, I Was In The Very Front Row At A Lady Gaga Concert While Six Months Pregnant And All I Got Were Some Crappy Camera Phone Photos

My ticket said NO CAMERAS, in very big capital letters. So I did not bring a camera, lest the Imaginary Authority Figures decided to yell at me.

They DID yell, kind of, but not about the camera thing. 

Jason bought me these tickets way, waaaaay back last summer for our anniversary, and included a upgrade to a special Little Monsters package, which meant we got to get in before anybody else and snag the primo floor real estate up front. At first, this did not seem to be much of an upgrade at all, since it ALSO meant my friend* and I got to start standing up a full FIVE FREAKING HOURS before Lady Gaga actually came on stage.

Five hours. Of non-stop standing up, minus exactly two incredibly hurried pee breaks. Not exaggerating. I can't even spend five hours SITTING down before I feel wiped out enough to move to full-on LYING down. 

Our spesul sort-of VIP status meant nothing to the event staff, however, who screamed at us repeatedly that if they saw ANY OF US not walking single-fucking-file, or cutting in front of people, or trying to run to our spots once we got inside, SWEARTOGOD, they would yank us out of the speshul line and toss us in the way back of the outside-round-the-block-general-admission line, IMEANITREALLYNORUNNING.

No one ran. I'm not sure any of us were even comfortable BREATHING DEEPLY until we made it to the stage barricades in the most orderly, kindergarten-line fashion possible.

*Jason bought the tickets, but SHOCKINGLY had absolutely no interest in attending the concert himself. I know, right! I think he totally would have rocked some caution tape and a tutu, but WHATEVER.

My place at the stage barricade, which completely blew my mind, being all of five puny feet from the stage.

(I do wish I'd managed to take a few more photos OF MY OWN STUPID ARM, though.)

Even though this backdrop was actually for Scissor Sisters, it set the mood for the evening nicely. Standing up, plus naked boobs.

The baby was relatively chill up until the opening act, when he woke up and started kicking like crazy, all WTF WAS THAT. Before that moment, I'd only really remembered that yes, I was indeed waddling around a Lady Gaga concert while pregnant when I saw everybody else's outfits and costumes. Twitter felt VERY STRONGLY that I should go using my belly as some sort of egg-related prop, perhaps with a side of bacon hotpants, but I didn't quite have the nerve to attend bare-bellied. At one point I was seriously considering a Naughty Pregnant Cop* outfit, but it wasn't as...ahem...STRETCHY in the abdomen area as I thought, and I couldn't get it zipped up. 

I went with a black lacy minidress that, if you squint, could POSSIBLY be interpreted as 80s-Madonna-ish-by-way-of-Target, bright purple tights, and a pair of over-the-knee black boots that I affectionately refer to as my Hooker Pirate Boots. Oh, and glow-in-the-dark Silly Bandz and a glittery purple headband that dug into my skull after an hour but bitch, I kept that sucker on all night like it was my own Alexander McQueen Lobster Shoe. I WILL SUFFER FOR MY HALF-ASSED FASHION. 

*If you have to ask why I had the resources on hand to even attempt a Naughty Pregnant Cop outfit, well, yeah. I...I'm sorry for this monumental bit of oversharing, but I did. 

For the record, you can absolutely bring a camera to a Lady Gaga concert. It's actually ENCOURAGED, to the point of being part of the show at least two times. Every single goddamn other person in the audience apparently knew this, meanwhile, I'm stuck with mementos of The Time I Was 10 Feet From Lady Gaga that all look like this:

And this:

And this:

Yeah, I was totally trying to get a picture of her ass. IF YOU'D SEEN IT IN REAL LIFE YOU'D KNOW WHY. 

Usually, I'm not a big fan of pop/dance music, and even less of a fan of giant, expensive stadium shows. But obviously -- thanks to all the guilty-pleasure confessing I do at Mamapop -- I've developed a very deep affection for Gaga and her craziness, in part because underneath it all I get the sense that she's just messing with us about 99% of the time. 

This show was like a big-budget rock opera: part Rocky Horror, part Andy-Warhol-art installation, part-self-mocking melodrama, part motivational Up With Tolerance & Self-Acceptance & Equal Rights seminar, and part cracked-out acid-fueled I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT. 

None of it was lip-synched, and goddamn, she can sing. 

(And performed live, Born This Way, weirdly, doesn't resemble Express Yourself nearly as much as the radio single does. Almost not at all. I mean, it helps that it started off as a near-acapella gospel choir song before morphing into a frenetic dance number with Very Hot Simulated Gay/Straight/Bi action by her Very Hot Back-Up Dancers, but still.)

I pulled the "I'M PREGNANT" card exactly twice:

Once while trying to navigate back to my spot before the show started after a bathroom break, and encountering a wave of assholes who were simply REFUSING to budge to let anyone through, refusing to believe or care that sorry, you WERE there first and had a spot being held by friends. I mean, I've held my ground to a point at shows too, especially when it's GROUPS of people obviously trying to push their way up front, but COME ON. It actually got the point where a grown man tried to body check me, with elbows out, and push me over into a group of other people. So I freaked the fuck out at him for being a fucking asshole to a SIX MONTHS PREGNANT WOMAN, LET ME THROUGH. Then I started screaming my friend's name so everyone turned to look at the stupid jerk getting physical with the little pregnant girl.

He then tried to lecture me about being at the concert in the crowd in the first place, since I was pregnant. I told him that he'd been the first and only thing to make me feel at all unsafe all day, so congratulations. Also: I've been holding my damn spot over there for FIVE HOURS ALREADY. You think you're gonna stop me, Gandalf? LEMME BY, YOU AMATEUR.

The second time was probably less noble. I yelled at a 16-year-old to stop crushing me against the barricade every time Gaga stepped close to us and shoving her camera directly in front of my face. I think my exact words were something like "YOU NEED TO CHILL THE FUCK OUT."

Or maybe "GET OFF MY LAWN."

Oh, and I saw Kathy Griffith, sitting in the seats right behind us, but did not get the opportunity to freak her out in the bathroom line or anything. Though I did strike up a conversation there with a nice grandmother who couldn't wait to see the crazy costumes, and hoped Gaga would sing Poker Face. (She did.) I also saw a lot of girls wearing just their bras and an even greater number of boys wearing...well, not very much clothing at all. 

And thus concludes my list of reasons why I think attending a Lady Gaga concert should definitely be on every woman's list of Top Five Things To Do While Six Months Pregnant, because I had an absolute fucking blast, and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Don't Stand So Close To Me

Weirdest pregnancy symptom yet: Claustrophobia.

Well, not even that, exactly. Kind of combination of a fear of crowds (demophobia!) combined with a violent knee-jerky reaction to invasions of my personal space. Like, if you accidentally bump into me in the grocery store aisle, don't be surprised if I start involuntarily shrieking and karate-chopping the shelves of soup cans. 

Jason noticed I seemed increasingly jumpy right from the start. I'm usually a big-time hugger, and very demonstrative and in-your-face with my compulsive need! For affection! Because I like you! Hi! Gimme a cuddle!

Instead, ever since getting all knocked up, I would startle if he brushed into me and sort-of flailingly seek to extricate myself from bear hugs and whenever the boys would do their patented EVERYBODY PILE ON MOMMY couch trick I'd slither to the floor and escape, and not in a HA HA FUN MOMMY way. More of a BACK THE HELL OFF ME, YOU ANIMALS way.

And then things got serious a few weeks ago, when I foolishly waited too long to head downtown for the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. I knew it would be bad, but not...that bad. I couldn't leave for the Metro until after Noah's soccer practice, but I was planning to meet Tracey and Charlie at their hotel a few stops before I figured things would get REALLY crazy and walk the rest of the way. Where we would quickly and easily be able to meet up with some of the other Mamapop writers at the rally. Because la la laaaaa I don't really understand how my hometown works sometimes. 

NEWSFLASH, DUMBASH: Things were crazy everywhere. I am pretty sure the entire DC-area population plus a bajillion tourists were all funneling into the Metro system at the exact same time. Platforms were mobbed, trains were packed, wait times were agonizing, Metro pass lines were...I don't even think you could call them "lines" anymore. More like "zombie hoards fighting over the dead horse entrails in The Walking Dead."

I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS MACHINE WOOOOORRRRRKS. I NEED TO RECHARGE MY SMARTTRIP PASSSSSSSS. HOW MUCH TO RIDE TO JUDICIARY SQUAAAAAARREEE? BRAAAAAIIIINSSSS.

Long story short: I finally got on a train. And found myself far away from a door or window, smushed right in the middle of a crowd of people who were all taller than me, trying to avoid my face crashing into their armpits with every lurch of the train, standing on my tiptoes in order to get anything close to what I'd consider fresh air. 

And I immediately, quietly, started to freak the FUCK OUT. 

For the record, I have never been on a Metro train -- crowded or otherwise -- with a pack of NICER people. Two guys helped me shimmy and inch my coat off once the cold sweats and labored breathing started. Another guy kept talking to me, alternating between distracting me and assuring me that everything was going to be okay, once he realized that I was, in fact, starting to freak the fuck out. 

(Though one girl kept whacking me in the face with her ponytail. I did not enjoy that.)

At every stop, the doors would open to a discouraged-yet-hopeful looking mob on the platform. Like us, they'd probably watched a good half-dozen trains pass them by already and were getting a tad desperate. So they'd try to push their way on. One or two always seemed to succeed, just by being forceful enough. My tiny bit of space got smaller and smaller; I became convinced that I no longer had adequate room to fully inflate my lungs and expand my rib cage. 

After one stop, another girl barreled off the train in a panic. She was sobbing, and her friends hollered in protest from the aisle. "Where are you going? What are you doing?"

Her only response: GET ME OFF GET ME OFF GET ME OFF

I made it about four stops, and as the train slowed down to open the doors AGAIN and allow more people to PUSH and PILE IN and OH MY GOD...I started shrieking. 

GET ME OFF GET ME OFF GET ME OFF

I got off the train. I found a seat and sat there gasping for awhile. Then I got on a train going in the other direction to go home. It was still full of people who were trying to get to the rally -- they'd all simply given up on getting aboard a downtown-headed train and figured they'd ride out to the 'burbs to where the crowds died down and reboard. They figured they wouldn't have to go any further than the stop I'd started at. I tried to warn them but shut up once everybody glared at me.

Sure enough, when we got back to my home stop, the crowd had easily doubled in size. Zombies, everywhere, lugging giant humorous signs and folding picnic chairs, like haaaaaaaa, yeah. You might as well just open that thing and park your ass right here, because this is probably the closest you're gonna get to downtown until AT LEAST Tuesday. 

This was all happening between 10 and 11 in the morning. I stopped shaking like a leaf sometime around...2 or 3 in the afternoon? I missed the rally, but my disappointment was easily offset with my relief over NOT TOTALLY DYING ON THAT STUPID TRAIN. 

Last weekend we went to a concert. The Black Crowes at the 9:30 Club. It's a smallish, standing-room-only venue that always packs about 17 million more people than one would expect for a smallish, standing-room-only venue. Still, it was nothing like that Metro car. Still, I found myself freaking out every time a club employee pushed past us with cases of beer to restock the nearby bar, every time someone tried to push by to angle for better real estate, and at several points during the night I had to turn around and put my forehead on the nearby wall because at least the wall was somewhat predictable in its movements and I felt like I could get fresh air if I breathed it directly from the notches in the bead-board paneling. I spent most of the time concentrating on NOT VOMITING. And watching this one drunk girl burst into tears every 10 minutes because she was havingsomuchfun and lovedtheBlackCrowessomuch and was also reallyfreakingdrunk.

A big, barrel-chested guy pushed through our area -- my defensive angled-out, pointy elbows did nothing to deter him -- and got STUCK directly in front of me. WEDGED, is more like it Our torsos were TOUCHING. I swear my clothing was ABSORBING HIS SWEAT. 

Jason says he saw my eyes bulge out of my head and my hands ball up into fists...right as the guy finally managed to squeeze past and on his way. 

About five minutes later, he caught me right before I started to black out. We decided that maybe we'd heard enough. They'd already played Josephine and She Talks To Angels, and I firmly believed that nothing -- not even Hard to Handle -- was worth DYING OF CONTACT WITH OTHER PEOPLE'S SWEATY T-SHIRTS over. 

So anyway. That's been happening. More often than it probably should. The good news is that most of the time, I can avoid closed-in crowds like that, and am now fine if my children play the PILE ON MOMMY game...just one at a time.

The bad news is that I have standing-room only tickets to another giant sold-out concert in February. I'm thinking of constructing a giant adult-sized hamster-ball bubble with yellow STAND BACK 50 FEET caution tape all over it.

I actually don't think I'll look too out of place. It's Lady Gaga, after all. 

One Step Closer To My Dream Of One Day Thoroughly Annoying Tim Gunn In Person

On Friday night, I went to a party. A non-kid-birthday, grown-up-fancy party! And I, of course, proceeded to act like a toddler the entire time. 

Part the First: I decide to wear my new shoes. I attempt to drive a stick shift in my new shoes. Six blocks and three stall-outs later, I kick them off and drive barefoot instead. 

Part the Second: I arrive early because I am a blogger of considerable influence who is also Internet-Friends with one of the VIP guests, Laura Bennett of Project Runway/Daily Beast/Your Local Bookstore. I bump into the person who invited me in the first place, give her an awkward hug of thanks...and accidently stomp on her bare feet with -- oh my God -- those stupid fucking shoes.

Part the Third: I attempt to give Laura directions to the event via text message, belatedly realizing that my phone auto-corrected my mistyping of "Elm Street" into "Elmo Street." 

Part the Fourth: There was wine. It was free.

Part the Fifth: Socialite/Professional Fancy Party Person Tinsley Mortimer was another VIP. Laura and I decide to get our picture taken with her. She's busy holding an interview, but we don't let that stop us.

 

 

 

I put some pigs-in-a-blanket on my plate so our photobombing had a believable cover story. That was my plan, in case someone yelled at us for being obnoxious jackasses. "We're just here for the buffet, sir!" 

Part the Sixth: At some point, so embiggened and boldened by our daring photo op with The Tinz, I just straight up ask Laura to make me a dress for MamaPop's Sparklecorn party. (In less grabby, selfish news, I'm giving away autographed copies of her new book instead. Whee!) 

Part the Seventh: Some woman thinks I am Laura's assistant or PR person and tries to pitch me on...McDonald's franchises? Or something? I explain that I'm just a friend, so she says, "Oh, never mind, here, hold my book for a minute" and then pushes through to Laura directly. After a few minutes she realizes she wants her book signed and starts shrieking "WHERE'S MY BOOK? SECURITY TOOK MY BOOK!" 

Part the Eighth: I give her back her book. 

Part the Ninth: After the book signing party, there was a fashion show. I probably say "FASHION SHOW! FASHION SHOW! FASHION SHOW AT LUNCH!" to a good half-dozen people, but nobody has any clue what I am talking about. Most people would have stopped after the first or second or third time, but I am not most people. CLEARLY.

Part the Tenth: I forget my gift bag full of free hair products under my seat. I spend the next 20 minutes trying to figure out a way that this was Jason's fault, but cannot.

Part the End: I say goodbye to Laura and everybody else who tolerated my over-excited presence all night, wander around in search of some french fries, then almost leave my shoes in the cab. But I don't! So the evening ends on a high note, at least.

Breaking: Movie Stars Are Short, Need Sandwiches

(This fucking economy, man. Hollywood is HUNGRY.)

So last night I had the distinct privilege of being Linda's plus-one for the big! red blue carpet! premiere! of Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. (The PR team in charge of the outing: "You have a blog too? That's adorable!")

This is how we do big fancy movie premieres in DC, you guys:

Port-o-potties as far as the eye could see. As we pulled up in our glamorous stretch limo short bus in front of the Air & Space Museum and a huge crowd of people who had apparently not figured out that the celebrities were already inside, I could barely contain my excitement and sudden terror about tripping on the bus steps and falling flat on my face.

I did not fall down, which meant it was now time for the descent into increasingly embarrassing fameball douche behavior.

"Smile, people in crowd who don't have tickets to get in! We're posting these on our MOMMYBLOGS!"

(I cannot lie, though. Linda. Sundry! Seriously just as funny and wicked and potty-mouthed as you imagine, or at least desperately hope. Port-o-potty-mouthed. Between her sailorspeak and my tendency to worry out loud over whether my breasts were leaking, I think we made an AWESOME impression on the Hershey's PR people. By the end of the night we were speaking exclusively in some kind of weird mind-meld twin-speak where we finished each other's increasingly obscure sentences. The fact that she's getting on a plane to fly back across the country right now pretty much symbolizes everything that is wrong and unfair with the world.)

Night at the Museu: Battle of the Smithso!

 

My shoes. I would have gotten a pedicure, but I figured that's what the celebrities were expecting me to do. And that's precisely when they eat you.

RED BLUE CARPET PRESS LINE JACKASS TIME OMG

Our first movie-star sighting! And it's the Butterscotch Stallion himself! He is short, for a stallion. Could strap on the old feed bag for sure. Toula! Eat something!

(Check out Access Hollywood's coverage and you'll see Linda trying to nonchalantly snap Owen's picture behind him. And to think, my elbow almost had its big break!)

(I am the blindingly reflective white person suppressing a cough in the way, way background at the 1:18 mark in USA Today's coverage, however.)

My camera thinks Owen Wilson should appear in one of those "Talk To Chuck" ads for Charles Schwab.

The back of Robin Williams' (very short) head. The lady in the sequins appears to be conducting an in-depth interview with his shiny jacket.

Ben Stiller. He's blurry because my camera doesn't have enough megapixels to properly focus on someone so tiny.

Ricky Gervais, who despite being considered on the portly side, basically looks like a completely normal and healthy-weighted person in real life. I'm goddamn chubbier than he is. Jason could fit half these people in his pocket. Noah could snap Ben Stiller like a twig.

And yes, if you're sensing that I've developed a bit of a complex about this, you are correct. Now sit down and eat some ham.

I think this was the RENO 911! guys (who wrote the movie), but. You know. MY THUMBS ARE TOO FAT.

Hank Azaria. Looks like a giant in IMAX, is not really. Fact! Was really, really funny, both onscreen and off.

Amy Adams. A reporter friend of mine said she was rude. I nearly tripped right in front of her on my way to my seat; got a vague sense she was horrified at how close the Dirty Normals were premitted to get to her. She's tiny and Disney princess-like and WHATEVER.

I've never in my life been to a movie premiere before -- I didn't know they'd have THREE people introducing the movie (well, one person introducing another person who introduced the person would actually introduce the movie) ("Movie? This is Crowd. The Crowd would like you to begin so they might rip into their gigantic boxes of Hershey's candy without it echoing throughout the theater. Crowd, this is Movie. Movie enjoys long walks on the beach and also thinks you are fat."). And I didn't know that people would applaud like, EVERY name in the opening credits, which did get awkward because some people got a lot of applause and then like, other people only got applause because they brought their mom.

Also everybody went nuts at the first shot of the Air & Space Museum, like OMFG THAT'S WHERE WE ARE RIGHT NOW! HOLY SHIT! EVERYBODY WAVE AND MAYBE THEY'LL PUT US ON THE JUMBOTRON!

Then there was the afterparty. Drinks, canapes (INCLUDING SANDWICHES!) and possibly more celebrities to harrass, but I was pretty over it. It had been hours since I'd blabbed endless on about my children with anybody, so save for one terrifying moment when Linda and I were approached by a couple of clearly very confused teenagers with cameras, that's exactly what we did for the rest of the night.

It's actually really hard to know which camera to look at on the red blue carpet. This is why movies stars are better than us: superior camera-looking talent.

Tonight I'll be back at another IMAX theater, but one more closer to my natural dork habitat: we're seeing STAR TREK again. How many times do you think Amy Adams has seen Star Trek? None, I'll bet. None times.

I WIN.

So You've Gone & Left Your iPhone in a Bathroom Stall at Nationals Stadium

Some handy steps and pointers:

1) STOP TAKING YOUR PHONE INTO BATHROOMS ALREADY, ASSHOLE.

2) Call phone, repeatedly. Curse out the automatic voicemail messaging service lady.

3) Head to Guest Services and the Lost & Found. Blank when they ask you to describe the phone. "Uh. It's a phone? 'Bout this big? Grayish/blackish/silverish? Supercute photo of this here baby *gesture to baby asleep in your cleavage* as the wallpaper when you turn it on?"

    3a) Blank even blanker when they ask you for a phone number in case the phone does turn up. Run outside to find husband and ask what the hell his cell phone number is. Get impatient while husband blanks and pulls out his phone to search for his own damn number.

4) Hike back to bathroom to check for phone one last time, completely missing the childish look of wonder on your son's face during the post-game fireworks, for which you waited through extra innings of complete boredom for and are now the assholes who have babies and preschoolers out in the city at 11 pm at night and ARE ALSO PHONELESS, THIS IS ALL THE FIREWORKS' FAULT SOMEHOW.

5) Inventory the contents of your phone. Naked MySpacian Photos: Negative. Preshus Baby Photos: Check, Of Course, Naturally. Place Where Preshus Baby Photos Are Properly Backed Up: On the laptop with a busted hard drive, check. Tangram App High Scores: Shit, motherfucker.

6) Call phone service provider and disable the phone, lest bill get racked up sky-high by some jerk using it for naked MySpacian photos and hijacking your Twitter and Facebook (I'M IN UR SOCIAL MEDIA NETWORKS, SUPERPOKIN UR FOLLOWERS).

7) Get recognized by readers an unprecendented THREE TIMES in a single weekend, bitch and moan to two of them about iPhone, give third reader a look of soldiering on in the face of unspeakable tragedy like a brave little toaster, leaving her probably wondering what the hell is so awful about buying goddamn lettuce at the farmer's market.

8) Notice an unfamiliar number calling Jason's cell phone. Think about answering it for him. Decide not to, because ewwwww phones!

9) Log onto Facebook. Find message from a total stranger who found your phone and has been trying to reach you all weekend, a task made infinitely more difficult since you went and disabled all text/phone/internet capabilities and kept ignoring those "unknown caller" numbers, but they refused to give up and tracked you down and would like to make sure you get it back, especially since it's full of adorable baby pictures, OMG.

10) Give humanity a big slobbery kiss, because seriously. I REALLY LOVE THAT PHONE.