How to Make Your Own Lady Gaga Costume in 10 Simple Steps (Obviously, one of those steps involves rap and a turtle snuggie)

Today marked the Jewish holiday of Purim (and if you'd like to learn more about it, feel free to check out my interview here), a celebration with food, parties, and costumes. One of my favorite things about the holiday is getting to choose my kids' costumes (that is, before they're old enough to articulate that they want to be a superhero or princess, or whatever). I like to do something a little different in those precious few years I have before Spiderman and Cinderella become de rigeur. T is already past the point of going along with my insane plans for him (whatever, one day he'll realize that Alex DeLarge would have been AN AWESOME COSTUME), and was dead-set on being DJ Lance from Yo Gabba Gabba this year. I must admit that he rocked it:

Lo, however, was a different story. I knew a few months ago that she would make a perfect Lady Gaga (chief among my reasons: she cannot yet say "OH HAILLLLLL NO, MOM."). It was the perfect costume project, and I set out to pull one together for her myself. The steps that follow would work for any grownup or kid intent on Gagafying themselves:

STEP 1: FIND A JUMPING-OFF POINT/FOCAL POINT FOR YOUR COSTUME. I (sigh) BEGRUDGINGLY SUGGEST AMERICAN APPAREL.

In my case, it was these leggings from That Store (and if you know me BUT AT ALL, you know that me crediting them for anything positive is a miracle):

I took one look at these bad boys, and when I realized I was completely agape, I knew I had both a winner in the Baby Gaga-esque leggings department, AND inspiration for a color scheme.

STEP 2: FIND RIDICULOUS SHOES TO MATCH:

Done and done.

STEP 3: FIND A PLAIN BLACK ONESIE/ CHEAP LEOTARD. BID IT -- AS YOU KNOW IT -- A FOND ADIEU:

STEP 4: BUY/FIND THE TACKIEST, UGLIEST, MOST VISUALLY OFFENSIVE DRESS YOU CAN, ON THE CHEAP. ONCE AGAIN, BID IT A FOND ADIEU.  

My strategy here involved going to a store that sells off-price European  kids clothes (which are generally more out-there than American stuff), and digging right in to the "clearance-clearance-PLEASE TAKE THIS STUFF MY GOD WE WILL PAY YOU" rack. This is how I found a dress -- that was what appeared to be the sartorial bastard child of a mid-'80s Katarina Witt skating costume and something that Minnie Mouse would wear to a funeral -- reduced from $89 to $4.99:

STEP 5: DECONSTRUCT DRESS. 

I cut free-form shapes from the outer layer, and sewed them all over the onesie:

I then  inspected the lining of the dress, and realized....

...that it would make perfect Gaga-esque epaulet...type...things. Like so:

STEP 6: GET A LITTLE PUNCHY, WORK ON ORIGINAL THEMED RAP. OBVIOUSLY, THE NINJA TURTLE SNUGGIE IS INVOLVED.

(Hey, I'm just telling you my process, here.)

STEP 7: ADMIRE "HANDIWORK."

STEP 8: HAIR! RELATED: PURCHASE SOMETHING VERRRRRY IMPORTANT.

I scoured the internet for the perfect Gaga hair bow to complete the look, and found one in this Etsy shop. (I heartily endorse her and her work, which not only looked great, but withstood the clutches of a grabby toddler. I did not mention my blog to her, so I'm gaining nothing by telling you this.)

After affixing the hair bow, I wove an extra piece of scrap tulle from the dress lining onto a bobby pin, and clipped that into her hair, sticking straight up. Because, you know, why not.

STEP 9: MAKEUP!

Seeing as I was dealing with a toddler, I quickly realized that dark eyeshadow/liner, while true to the overall look, kind of made her look like...a wee 'tute. Not cool. I quickly backed up off that, and focused instead on myriad forms of crazypants glitter/sparkles, and red, red lips.

Obviously, she was pleased.

 

Eh, whatever, she got over it.

STEP 10: UNLEASH BABY GAGA ON THE WORRRRRLD!

Recent Trivial Events I Am Totally Not Over

1. The fact that in response to my question on my last post regarding movies that scarred people's childhoods, a bunch mentioned Watcher in the Woods, and obviously, I decided to research it online. Of course, I did so late at night when I was home alone and consequently became fearful of mirrors for the next day or so. Which was wonderful, considering I need mirrors for things like proper mascara application, and -- if I'm being totally honest -- wiping off last night's mascara, and OH STOP THAT, we all have our bad beauty habits, right?  Anyway, this movie looks all kinds of effed up in and of itself, but the effedness is exacerbated by the fact that it's a Disney movie. However: Bette Davis is in it, so I'll begrudgingly forgive the movie a tiny bit for scaring me. Even if she does tease me and unease me.

2. I know, I already tweeted about this, but see my post title, above. Please, do help me analyze/dissect this egg company's slogan:

Do babies need specific eggs? How are they defining "invalids"? I mean, obviously, I bought them (the eggs, not the invalids. Or babies. And I suppose my purchase makes me one of the "particular people"), but I've been thinking about this more than I care to admit. And to make matters more LIFE-THREATENINGLY HILARIOUS, a rival egg company weighed in on Twitter, all "these are NOT pasteurized eggs!" The...plot thickens?

3. Seeing a coffin just LOUNGING IN THE STREET next to my office today. I spotted it, promptly bugged out for a second, and then decided that I had wandered into a Tobacco Truth ad, and I should play it cool, lest I look stupid in the inevitable commercial. Welcome to the workings of my mind. So I decided to do this sort of, like, loping Overly Casual Walk, just striding past the coffin, all fake-breezy-like, to, you know, to get a better look at what was going on, and then I saw that it was advertising an asbestos removal company. While arguably effective, you can go straight to hell, Asbestos Coffin Advertisers. (I'll bet those of you who are visiting NYC in the near future are just THRILLED to read about this, right? Welcome to New York: The City Where Coffins Are All Up In Our Streets.)

The best part is that most of the other people walking down the street along with me took GREAT PAINS to appear nonchalant about the coffin, like it's was something that's always there, or something beyond insignificant, akin to a crumpled coffee cup rolling in the breeze. And I mean, I will be the first one to admit that there is a lot of weird stuff to be seen around here, and as such, we're desensitized to an extent, but COME ON. Take that lady in the shot above, for instance. She wouldn't even LOOK at the coffin, such was her feigned disinterest. Oh, New Yorkers. I'm pretty sure I'm about to get kicked out of the state for both looking at and taking a picture of it.

*  *  *  *  *
I'm currently compiling another Ask a Jew post. Let me know if you have any questions!

Return to Oz: I'm pretty sure making your kids watch this movie is a form of child abuse.

You know, when I think about frightening movies that I saw as a young kid, ones that I didn't quite get, ones that freaked me out at the time, I have always immediately thought of It, Nightmare on Elm Street, that porn that was accidentally in the box labeled Big at my friend's sleepover party (yes, this really happened. Yes, there's a joke to be made there. No, I'm not making it.),  and to a lesser extent, Ghostbusters (ZUUUUUUL!). Then earlier today, I saw Diane post this on Twitter:

It was like something out of The Usual Suspects (a movie that, ironically, does not scare me) as I gasped, and a flood of horrible memories whomped me upside the head. (I didn't drop my coffee mug in slow motion, though, which is good, because then I would have smelled like the inside of a 747 for the rest of the day.)  Return to Oz, for those of you who don’t know, is a little-known sequel to The Wizard of Oz. It is also what one might call a PSYCHE-SCARRING EXPERIENCE, despite bearing the innocuous PG rating. I very distinctly recall seeing it in the theater with my best friend at the time when we were maybe six years old, which is, you know, a great time to see Dorothy get threatened with imprisonment and then beheading.

Now, it’s difficult for me to provide a complete plot summary, because then you’d be skeptical. And why wouldn’t you, considering that you’d be reading my (VERY ACCURATE) descriptive phrases, such as “magical, sought-after talking chicken,” “flying sofa with moose-ish head attached,” and “looming danger of being turned into some sort of gemstone ornament, yes, really.”? Instead, allow me to share with you some highlights of this beloved treasure of a childhood film:

• Dorothy -- who is now a little kid, for some reason? Even though this movie is set AFTER the events of the first one? Wha? -- is having trouble sleeping, and is taken to an insane asylum for overnight electroshock therapy. As you generally do with insomniac children.

• There is a desert that TURNS YOU INTO SAND IF YOU STEP ON IT.

• Everyone in Oz has been turned to stone, and the place is trashed. It’s some creepy Pompeii shit, is what it is.

•  There are evil Wheelers; half men, half...squeaky shopping cart...things?

They're scarier than my description is making them out to BE! And that picture! No really, I--okay, you know what? I'm going to have to find a video to prove my point. Now, ignore, if you will, the comic relief of the aforementioned talking chicken -- specifically said chicken’s voice-- and imagine the horror of seeing this as a small child. Or hell, even NOW. (You’ll note the frozen-in-time stone people throughout):

• I’ve saved the best thing for last, and by “best” I mean “pants-crappingly awful, POSSIBLY WORSE THAN ANYTHING EVER GIRD YOUR LOINS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.” I refer, of course, to Princess Mombi, who’s technically headless, but don’t fret, because she has a room full of SCREAMING REPLACEMENT HEADS THAT SHE CAN POP ON AND OFF LIKE DAMN BUMPITS, because that is a thing that is enjoyable for kids to watch:

 Obviously, you'll be needing the video here, too:

I'd attempt to end this post properly, but I may have wet myself. So indulge me, please, and, tell me: what was the scariest/most scarring movie you saw as a kid? I need the distraction, you guys! I may never sleep again.

Picture, Thousand Words, Etc.

I can't put in words how appreciative I am for all of your thoughtful and WISE comments on my last post; I was holding on to those thoughts and concerns for a while, and I...well, thank you.

I suppose it was fate that after all my hand-wringing and fretting, I walked past the living room Wednesday morning, just as the snowstorm was beginning to kick into gear, and was lucky enough to spot this:



I have no illusions that they'll have a perfect sibling relationship forever, but I know -- I KNOW -- that this is the picture I'm going to remember, and the one I'm going to annoyingly brandish all up in their grills 10 years from now, when they're at each other's throats.

When I wrote that post, I was so focused on my concerns that I had forgotten to mention something important: that they're each other's biggest fans. So even if (fine, when) J and I aren't The Perfect Parents, seeing them cuddled up like this reminded me that they're there for each other, and that (along with your kind words) helped a huge portion of my worry dissipate.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Labelmaker

Years ago, I had a teacher I'll call Mrs. K. I was in a Jewish day school, and whereas most of my classmates had older siblings or parents who themselves had attended Hebrew school, I didn’t. This meant that I had to struggle through my Hebrew studies homework basically on my own.

One day, after I had gotten yet another C on a Hebrew test, Mrs. K pulled me out of class to talk. I was cringing, but I relaxed when I saw her smiling. Then she put her hand on my shoulder and spoke:

"Think about it this way: Some people have a lot of marbles in their head, and some don't. You're just one of those people who doesn't have a lot of marbles in her head. I know you try; you're just not that smart."

I was nine years old, and I can still hear her little speech.

Things worked themselves out over time, but I have to admit, I fleetingly thought of her every time my [BLAH BLAH DOUCHE] academic accomplishments had proven her wrong over the years.

And now, as my kids get bigger, and their respective personalities grow more distinct and pronounced, I find myself thinking about her again; I think about how it felt to be -- in a way -- labeled as something, because I KNOW I’ve been doing it to my kids lately. Not awful things like my teacher, obviously, but all the same, I’ve observed (and verbalized to others) that [KID A] is the sensitive, shy, thoughtful one, and [KID B] is the outgoing, carefree one. It’s...well, it’s true, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty for thinking it.

With two children, I’m finding it nearly impossible to avoid making comparisons. I can’t stop myself from recalling what T did at Stage X, and noting how Lo navigates it in another way. I can’t help but feel my heart twist when I see one of my kids effortlessly jump into the fray at a party, and my other one cautiously, edging their way in, needing to see me/J in order to feel reassured.

I want to nurture (BLARFFFFFF) their differing personalities, but at the same time, not treat THEM differently from each other. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, The Thing that sticks with them for, oh, TWENTY YEARS AND COUNTING, and I know I should make myself stop mentally labeling their personalities, but to be honest, knowing their personalities dictates what they’ll respond to best in a given situation. I'm...I'm overthinking things, aren't I?

I know this post isn’t my usual tone, and I’m certain that such navel gazing would’ve been more interesting if said navel was still pierced. (I was a much more exciting person in 2000.) All the same, if you have any sage wisdom to impart, something that will assist me in figuring this out, I would be very, very appreciative. And so, I figure, would they:

Somebody's Cold War Is Giving Me Chills

Math has never been my bag, and so I guess it shouldn't have been terrribly shocking that a few weeks ago, I received an email at work indicating that I had an overage of carried-over vacation hours (four days worth) from 2009, which I'd lose if I didn't use by the end of January. (I don't know how I messed up that math, but really, like I said, not too surprising.) It took a few late nights, but I got everything squared away, and was able to take the days. As much as I love my job (and I do), I all but left a me-shaped hole in the door of my office, cartoon-style, as I hightailed it out of there for my sudden and plan-free time off.

I had never before in my adult life had such a length of uninterrupted time to do what I wanted during the day, without work, or anyone actively clinging to my person/relieving themselves in my vicinity. (Aside from the hobos, I mean.) It was like an episode of The Hills, only without all the backstabbing and leggings and vacant staring. Oodles of time for a pedicure! Massage! Brunch! Cozying up with a good book at a tiny book shop! Lazily strolling the aisles of Trader Joe's! And, uh, learning that the opening lyrics to Weezer's "Say It Ain't So" are "Somebody's Heine' is crowdin' my icebox/Somebody's cold one is givin' me chills." And not... "Somebody's hiding; trolling the baseboards/Somebody's Cold War is giving me chills." (Arguably, the last one is something I could've learned anytime, but it's still valuable information. And IT BLEW MY MIND, sadly.)

Of course, life must balance itself out, and so what followed my relaxing time of magical relaxation, naturally, is that J had to go to Vegas this week for a long-ass trip. Now, I know what you're thinking, and that is "naked hooker orgies!"  but unless the many documents he carried with him are all part of an ingenious and elaborate ruse, it seems that things will be all business, and he shall be steering clear of the naked hooker orgies. OSTENSIBLY.

In other news, my (Mostly) Fictional People Who Need To Get Punched In The Neck list has inducted three new members this week:

This guy:



Gisele Bündchen for this article (and I hasten to point out, my ire is NOT for her approach to childbirth, but for her being such a giant, sanctimonious douche. I mean, of course you should describe your own experience, but in so doing, don't not-so-subtly tick off a list of things that you didn't experience, when YOU KNOW such things are icky and painy and, well, pretty commonplace in nearly every single delivery, no matter what method).

And finally, Smuggy McLoosepants:



I've vented about her ad nauseam on Twitter, but you guys, her failure to effectively communicate with her poor tailor -- who's just trying to do her job, MY GOD -- makes me insane. Her smugness is obviously an issue, but coupled with that is her mystifying inability to: (a) simply say "I lost weight. Take in these here fatpants;" and (b) tack on the clarifying term "yogurt" when listing the dessert-y stuff she's been eating. Like that's Just A Totally Normal Thing That People Do When Talking About Their Creepy Yogurt Diet; they say the flavor, neglecting to mention what in the hell it is they're actually eating. I'M SO SURE, Smuggy McLoosepants.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go eat lemon. SMUGLY. While I'm doing that, feel free to add on to the (Mostly) Fictional People Who Need To Get Punched In The Neck list. A little venting is good for the soul!