The Truth About Denise Richards and Heidi Klum

You know who I am talking about even if you don't follow the rags. If you have ever set foot in a grocery store, or passed a newsstand, you have seen them: the skinny bods of celebs post-baby, posing for Playboy, strutting down the runway in bra, undies and wings, waving from the arms of Celeb husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends...

There was a feature on MSN a few months ago about "HOW CELEBRITIES LOSE THEIR BABY WEIGHT SO FAST." The fact that women are stupid enough to waste their time reading is beyond me. It doesn't take an insider to get it. Um, hellllo? These women are LOADED. They snap their finger and shit happens. I need to lose 60 pounds by Friday. Easy! Breezy! Beautiful, cover girl!

"Swallow a few of these, your trainer will be there at 5am, no eating, and we'll hire ten nannies to assist you with your little one."

These women are NOT breastfeeding. These women are dieting hardcore and working their asses out. That is the secret. I know. Shhhhhh.

And yes, it is possible to lose the baby weight quickly, but as far as I can tell, all of us do not have the cash or star-power to make it happen within weeks.
Working out and eating right can only go so far when you just squeezed a human out of your vagina (or stomach), so give credit where credit is due: to you for doing it the REAL hard way, without a staff of 345 on hand at your beckoned call.

Can I get a "what, what?"

Bitches, please.


To Christmas or not to Christmas

This is our first holiday season as a family and much like my father was with my mom, my hub is hell-bent on the NO CHRISTMAS TREE policy. I married a Jew, just like my mother and her mother before her. What can I say? We have a thing for chosen peeps.

In all matter-of-fact terms, blood wise I am 3/4 Jewish, so REALLY, I am kind of a chosen person too. We grew up celebrating Hanukkah and Christmas. My mom held a neighborhood non-denominational "bible"study in our house and we learned about Buddhism, took field trips to the Self Realization Fellowship and studied the Koran as well as both testaments. We went to temple on Thanksgiving and attended Mass a couple of times on Christmas Eve. My Mom wanted us to know what was out there so we could make up our own minds about God, religion and spirituality.

Every year my Dad puts up the Christmas lights, slightly peeved. As kids my brother and I convinced him that we HAD to have Christmas lights because everyone else on our street had them and our house looked like the black hole/antichrist of excitement and holiday cheer. (I grew up on one of those cul-de-sacs where every house had a giant inflatable Santa on the lawn, and porcelain mangers with life size baby Jesus' asleep in the manger, and the Three Kings of Orient on the rooftop, feeding Santa's foam, reindeer carrots, and the green fog machines sang Christmas carols, etc). When my parents were first married, the Christmas tree was a BIG no-no but my Mom insisted and my Dad surrendered. He surrendered to us (my brother and me) as well and my poor father is probably on the roof as I write this, stapling Christmas lights around the windows, humming "deck the halls."

Now it's my turn. My old man isn't exactly thrilled with my insisting we have a Christmas tree. He never had one so why should we? After this years' tragic events it feels almost sacrilegious to celebrate a holiday where we all give gifts to our non-needy relatives, while the people who are in need, hold out their empty hands, but I digress... I just want a friggin Christmas tree, aight?

"No lights, though!"
"Okay, maybe next year."
"But where will we put a Christmas tree?"
"Anywhere.... Pretty please (cute face) with a cherry on top?"

In all realness, I would be happy to skip Christmas altogether and become a bonafide chosen-one with a chosen-one family, but I'm just not ready to give up old traditions. I honor my father's roots and light the Menorah all eight days of Hannukah. I attend the family Passover Seder and read from the thirty-page book my Grandpa prints out every year, and although my mother's roots were certainly interdenominational, there was a Christmas tree in our house growing up and it was magic! The smell and the sparkling ornaments and the pine needles everywhere. I have never had a white Christmas or a white winter or a white wedding so the Christmas tree gives December a cozy feel. And now that I have a family of my own, I would like Archer to experience the fond memories of my childhood.

It was one thing living with drunk roommates in a three bedroom party house. I was never feeling festive in those days and if i was I just bought a little mistletoe and ran around town. But now...?

The question (argument) remains: How will we raise Archer? With Christmas or without? As Jew or Gentile? I am leaning toward D. All of the above.


Thanks for the Memories

a GGC Thanksgiving weekend pictorial:

We spent the long weekend with my fam in San Diego. Check out the brown plaid golfwear. Arch had suspenders but they kept falling down and we were all getting caught in them. Hope everyone had a wonderful weekend. I am still trying to digest aprox 876 pies.

Dear Archer Sage,

Six months ago, today you were born. I was bursting at the seams and weighed in at two hundred-pounds. I wanted you to be a boy so badly I secretly wrote letters to my boy before I knew. Everyone told me that you were going to be a girl and when the woman gave me my ultrasound and told me that I had been right all along, I burst into tears. Being pregnant with you was my most amazing experience. I leaned over and spoke to you every day so you would know my voice. And even in that last month, bedridden, swollen, anxious I adored knowing that you were growing inside of me, my little vine.

I had no idea what to expect and neither did your Dad. We boycotted lamaze class and decided to wing it like the cavepeople, except I wasn't as brave. (Your Dad wasn't either. He almost fainted twice.) After two hours of active labor I succumbed to the epidural (western women's pain is nothing like it was a thousand years ago when painkillers were leaches or whatever.)

With four big pushes you were out. You looked up at me with your huge eyes and I was in shock. I could have sworn we had met somewhere before. You know, before all of this...

I slept with you in my arms in the hospital because I didn't want you to sleep in a plastic thing. I stared at you for days, sleep deprived and totally in awe of your beauty. I talked to you like we were old friends. I cried in your hair and whispered secrets in your ear. You listened and fell asleep while I rubbed your nose.

When you smiled for the first time I couldn't believe that such a thing was possible, a little person, part of me, so new, experiencing such a feat! You were awestruck when your Dad made up songs for you on his guitar and when he played Debussy on the piano you kicked and cooed because you recognized the melody your Daddy played for you every day in the womb. (Reverie was playing when you were born.) Reverie, to daydream and you did. Staring into space, even now, oblivious of people oohing and ahhing and waving at you. Too busy thinking, understanding, dreaming. My thoughtful little boy.

The first time you laughed was when I did bicycle with your little legs. I couldn't believe it and called everyone, wanting then to hear it firsthand but you were shy when I held up the phone and you still are. You only laugh for people you know. I was the same way when I was a baby. I was quiet. I had secrets too.

Some of my favorite times have been waking up with you in the middle of the night and bringing you into bed with us. You snuggle close and fall asleep with your hand on my face. We took you to the Monterey Aquarium at three-months old and you watched the jellyfish for half an hour, waving at the creatures with curious hands. And when I leave you with your Dad, I bring a book of photos with me so I can look at them at stoplights and pine for you. Sometimes I show strangers at parties because I am that mom and one day I'm sure you will roll your eyes at me because I'm so uncool.

And every now and then I sneak into your room and watch you sleep and sometimes you are smiling, dreaming again. And sometimes when you see me get upset you start to cry, because that is what happens when two beings are attached to each other, and it always makes me stop and make a silly face, so that you will laugh, because your happiness matters more than mine does and that is the way it is now.

I love you more every day, my bugsy, my little fish. Today you are six months, little daydreamer, miracle, gentle love. Little nuzzle-dancer, feet-stomping pilgrim, laughing-goose, hoot-owl, head-butting sleepy bear, petit prince. Every day you overwhelm me with joy and wonder. I can't believe you are even real sometimes.




Making Mom Friends...

... is more difficult than I thought. In my single years I was balls-out fearless. Point me in the direction of a man and I would approach him, ask him out, whatever. No problem. I do not feel threatened by men and have had male friends since I was a child with little conflict. Girls? Another story.

I lived in Los Angeles for seven years (minus a few holes) and have only met five girlfriends total. Five girlfriends that I socialize with once every couple months, talk to once every couple weeks, etc and ALL of them I have met through dudes. That's right, all of them. So, um, yeah, this whole trying-to-make-mom-friends thing has not been easy for me.

Our landlords live next door and are about to have a baby. This was one reason I was in love with our house. A local Mommy friend! I do have a close friend expecting but she lives in San Francisco. My only other Mommy friend is living in Japan. A bit of a swim, really.

Every morning I walk to Starbucks with Archer in hopes of meeting Ms. Right. I have met dozens of Mother child duos but none of them have been good enough. There was the obnoxious caked-on makeup Mom with WAY TOO MUCH USC pride. (Every time I see her, both her and her child are decked out head to toe in maroon and yellow. Ahem.) There was the woman who, when Archer was three weeks old, asked me what his favorite book was. When I stared blankly and answered, "Um. He's three weeks old. He could care less," she laughed and explained that HER son LOOOOOOOVED books since birth and how when he was three days old she took him to Borders and how he smiled and laughed and started reading Dr. Suess books right then and there because genius is unstoppable and on and on and...

"I guess my son is just slow then," I said.
"Too bad. Books are wonderful."
"Oh yeah? Well maybe I will try reading one some day, you fucking idiot." (I didn't really say that but I should have.

There was the woman who was shocked that Archer was not crawling yet because her daughter was crawling at, oh something like four-months. And yeah, she was talking at six-months as well.

"I guess my son is just slow then."
"That's too bad."

Some mothers have been too old.
"Wow, you look good for fifty-eight."
Some mothers have been too young.
"Seventeen? Oh cool! What highschool do you go to?"

Today I met a Mom, seemingly perfect and the most promising Mom friend I have met since Archer's birth. In one hour she did not confess that her child was brilliantly speaking ten languages at age one. She did not quote Dr. Sears' methods for healthy modern child-rearing. She was subtle, soft-spoken and as well as being a mother was someone I related to on other levels. A rare find, indeed. I was so nervous I kept tripping over my sentences, blanking on words like "pacifier" and pulling a Dumbass-Dubya -- reading Vogue upside down between bursts of introductory conversation. When she asked for my number before leaving I was so excited I dropped my pen three times.

Now for the first time in a very long while, I am waiting by the phone. Fingers crossed. This may be the one.


It Takes The Village, People, Part Deux:

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

The whole sex talk thing is something I remember pretty strongly. I was five years old with a chronic masturbation problem. I didn't know what the hell I was doing. It was innocent, really. Embarrassing in retrospect but modesty is sort of a waste of time these days. My mom tried to explain sex to me but I was so confused and grossed out, she stopped herself. (Ewwwwwwwwww, cooties!) and waited until I was a little older to give me the full-on sex talk.

I was seven years old at the dining room table making books. (I started young.) I had just finished stapling my book about animals together when I started another. The title, "Sex." Believe it or not, I was a fairly sheltered little girl. I was only allowed to listen to classical music and no TV except Sesame Street. The George Michael song, "I want your sex" was a current hit AND in my head so I created a book, quoting the song and illustrating each phrase accordingly.

My book read...
Page one: Sex is natural.
Page two: Sex is fun.
Page three: Sex is best when its one on one
I proudly brought it to my mother when I was done.
"This is for you," I said.
Her mouth dropped. She crumpled the book. I was devestated. My book was banned! Literature a disgrace! What had I done?
"Where did you learn this?"
"I think its a song."
"Where did you hear this song?"

I sure didn't hear the song from a friend's parent. Nope. I was friendless in those days. I was the quiet girl, wandering the fields at recess picking dandelions and writing poetry about unicorns. Barking like a dog when kids made fun of me and dressing up like my pet rat, Kevin for Halloween. I was completely socially inept, quietly obsessed with.... sex? Who knew? I might have heard the song from the window of another car or in a store or, I froze...

"...the boy next door."

Just two weeks previous I had walked through the front door proclaiming "Fuck you!" to my mother, sweetly after just hearing it from BJ, the kid who lived next door. I had no clue what it meant, or that it was a bad word. When my mom gave me the sex chat I was so embarrassed, I wanted to hide under my bed and never come out. It was a nightmare.

"Fuck means.... sex means...."
OH GOD IN HEAVEN! It was all George Michael's fault and that stupid boy next door.

The times they have a changed though, and contrary to growing up in the suburbs, city-life is quite a different place to raise a young'n. Even if I wanted to shelter Archer it would be impossible. And that's okay with me. But when is the time to introduce him to adult concepts when he is surrounded?

Exhibit A: Like I mentioned in "It Takes a Village, People..." Archer has more gay influences in his life than most. This makes my husband nervous so it has come to him pointing out hot chicks and saying "Hot chick" to Archer.

Last night I left the room for water only to come back to Archer on my husband's lap, getting a lesson in "heterosexual sex" between two characters. He pointed at the scene, "Pretty, cool eh?"

"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Teaching him the ways of..."
"Um. He's a little young."
"Well he's a little young for hair advice and talk of eyebrow waxing as well."
"He's too young for all of it."
It was silent. The ooooh yeahs of the actors echoed throughout the house.
We both agreed, put Archer to sleep and shook with fright over having to have the "sex conversation" when he was old enough to understand what we were saying.

I tossed and turned all night, while the visions of George Michael danced in my head...



The way to Archer's heart is through his ears. I just played guitar for him for the past twenty minutes and he laughed THE WHOLE TIME. When I put the guitar down he screamed... I kept playing. I had to! Twas an encore and the laughs pursued. Finally, I am a rock star. Such a rock star...


GGC Recommendations...

Ceci New York for all of your announcement, and invitation needs. Lisa Hoffman,(Ceci master in command) designed Archer's baby announcement and it was beautiful!! All of her designs are-- check-it, check-it out...

We all know that chic design is mas importante, especially when it comes to introducing your human child.


What the Devil?

A Halloween story continued...

(GGC is a little slow on the photo uploading these days)

Grandma (gone grandchild) comes face to face with her outer demons.


The Beauty of Delusional Confidence

I have been working as a freelance writer off and on since I was fourteen. Ever heard of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul? Yeah, I wrote that crap. I was a young girl with dreams, underpaid and counting myself lucky to have a high school job that included MSNBC appearances (I was some kind of teen-depression expert because I wrote stories and poems about getting dumped) and weekend trips to L.A. (at that time, Los Angeles was totally awesome and rad.) My "job" led to other "jobs," book signings and of course, the glitz and glam of the writer's life. Hahahahahahhaha!!!! Yeah, right. Although I did manage to finagle a travel writing gig at 19 by lying to editors about my age. Who knew that I wasn't a retired school teacher in search of the ultimate honeymoon destinations/ greatest rock shows?

I had a great fake ID which enabled me to gamble freely on a Vegas book tour, win big and treat myself to a shopping spree at Tiffany's. (The jewelry reminds me to stop when I'm ahead. Sometimes it helps.) I convinced editors that I was a "relationship expert" as a recently devirginized teenager. (I truly thought I was.) It was my insatiable confidence and naivete that enabled me to attend the greatest European music festivals and get drunk beside some of my greatest musical heroes, all before I could legally do so. And why the hell not? I could do anything, right? Sure seemed like it at the time.

...Until people started talking shit. After one of my features in 19 Magazine UK, a letter to the editor was published about how, the author of something-something-drunk-cheaters-and-their-best-friend's-bloke was, "totally bollocks and full of bloody shit." Even though it was all true, I was totally bummed. Upsetting my readership was not my intention. I was trying to make a living and psssh, you write what you know. Or at least, what you can guess. 19 didn't hire me to write anything after that, probably because I didn't feel like pitching anything to them again. (I really stuck it to the man in those days. Fuck yeah.)

I continued writing for Chicken Soup until I became sick of faking it. It's one thing to fake a story, and quite another to fake your way through a relationship. (The people who run Chicken Soup are absolute monsters. There I said it. Fucking animals.) I started working on a novel and got a 9-5 job to pay the bills. I am not proud of my name being attached to the biggest joke in publishing history. I will be the first to admit that I am no better than the "artists" that paint by number under Thomas Kinkade*.

I once signed books next to Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I introduced myself to him as a BIG fan and asked if he wouldn't mind signing my beloved copy of A Coney Island of the Mind. He laughed at me. You are a fan? A small part of me felt like an idiot (since when are beat poets so snobby?), but the bigger chunk thought, "fuck it." I was getting paid to write. I knew who I was, kinda. I was living, taking notes, making it happen. So what if I wasn't making it happen the respectable-collegiate-scholarly way.

I digress... now that I am working from home again I am getting back into freelancing. Trying. It really was quite a lot easier when I was younger, a smidge more delusional and quite happy to barge into the offices of I-D magazine fearlessly. I recently wrote a bit for Babycenter and today, while googling myself. (Come on, you do it too) I found that there was an entire group of parents who hate what I wrote and think I am full of shit.

The fact that I am the kind of person that googles herself is precisely the reason I I am flattered by the whyMs.Woolf' convo because I know what they are thinking. The same thing the ASB was thinking when they invited the author from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul to speak at their high school, only to find me chain-smoking in the parking lot. That I am not that girl, that I am someone else (although, I did mean every word, and stand by my eye-rolling love for new momzhood and my child.) The truth is this, in order to make a living as a writer (or part of a living) you must write what you know. You must speak the truth, shout it if you must! But sometimes to really enjoy writing, you have to lie, fib, guess, give each baby his bottle. Better yet, whip them titties out and start breastfeeding.

Do not be deceived by appearances. The esteem that one** holds as a hyper-confident delusionoid makes it possible for one to pose as an expert even if she is a novice, a virgin, a teeny-bopper writing bad poetry, an unexperienced girl gone child...

...laughing all the way to the bank.


*I really hate him.
**Yes, sometimes I talk about myself in the third person.


Sorry about the comment problem. I was like, fuck, no comments. Then I realized why. My settings were all loopy. Thanks, weirdgirl for the 411. It's all fixed now!!! Comment away!!! Er, use your words!!!



I asked him for a ride but there was only one seat. I held onto the back and rode my skateboard instead.

"Hold on, Mama."

... and we drove off into the sunset.


It Takes A Village, People

Ah, yes. It takes a village to raise a child and in my case, The Village People. Not exactly the band, but you know what I mean...

A couple months ago, something rather unexpected happened. My ol' man was hired to produce an all gay talk show for an all gay network.

His raise enabled us to move to our current pad and he comes home every night with stories galories, hot celeb gossip and plenty of insight into the world of man on man action. My manly man of a husband has become a manly man with more skin product than I have (all freebies) and more scrutiny when it comes to an actress' hairstyle than moi.

For example:

"Her hair looks fucking awful."
"Yeah. Can you see that (pauses the DVD) right there. Yeah. That's bad."

Not that there is anything wrong with this and don't get me wrong, I love the gays. More than 99% of most straights. Gays rule.

My best friend is a Gay man. His name is Frank. We lived together for two years before the pee-on-stick-eight-hundred-times-incident when I moved out and in with my then husband to be. Frank is a great guy and a true blue friend. He is the kind of friend that will drop everything to help with even the most mundane task and is happy to do so. He is the kind of man that will pick a fight with an asshole in the parking lot of Ralphs, even if that asshole was three times his size, if say, that asshole were to lay an inappropriate hand on me. Frank was the man in my life for many years and without him, I might be dead in a gutter somewhere, or worse.

When Archer was born, Frank cried. When we brought Archer home, Frank came over with bags full of diapers, looked at Archer and cried again. Five months later, Uncle Frank is very much in my life and in Archer's and the fam is lucky to have him.

Frank has been around a lot lately, helping keep me sane with all of the moving, shopping, stress that comes with the whole, new house, new life thing.

The other day while shopping I overheard Frank pointing out hair products to Archer.

"And this is called ____ product. Very important."
"What are you doing?"
"Just teaching Archer the ways of the world: beauty, beauty, beauty!"
"I see."

We proceeded to walk the isles and Frank proceeded to teach Archer about Creme de la Mer and exfoliant. Archer stared blankly, drooling on Frank's Prada manpurse and kicked his little legs.

Frank helped Archer up and gave him an Eskimo kiss. "When you get a little bit older, Uncle Frank is going to take you to get your very first eyebrow wax!"

And the record stopped.

"What did you say?"
"His eyebrow wax? The boy will need one eventually."
"Ahem, Frank?"

And that wasn't all. Just the other day, Frank was commenting on all of the mirrors in Archer's bedroom, in his crib, on his mobile.

"Vanity, Archer! Vanity, vanity, vanity!!!"

"Not really. He just likes looking at his reflection."
Frank turned to Archer "Good for you!!!" And then he turned to me "Vanity!" he smiled.

I wonder if the whole vanity, eyebrow waxing, introduction of products will have any long term effect on the kid. I read Archer books. My ol' man plays games with him. Frank teaches Arch about skin care and vanity. Fair enough.

Now mind you, I work full time from home with NO interaction besides Archer, ol' man and Frank. A boy that doesn't speak and two boys that know more about pop culture and fashion trends than I do. (and I know a lot.) A man who carries the gay gene and a man so saturated in gaydom that we have Chippendale calendars filling the junk drawers of our house and invitations on our fridge for ever gay mixer in the greater Los Angeles area.

With the Gay Network paying for our bills and making it possible for Archer to have his own room, and Frank's helping hand, the fam is completely dependent on the Macho, Macho men of the YMCA.

Ah yes, a village, people. A village.


This GGC Formally Known as CBH

Please update your bookmarks, links, whatevers and join me for the same shit, different domain. CHILDBEARING HIPSter has been copied and pasted (tediously) into Girl's Gone Child and minus the fact that there are no comments here, is identical to the beloved CBH.


1. Why did you Change your title?

I changed my title because there was already a Childbearing Hipster and rather than succumb to sloppy seconds and infamy, I decided to recreate my blog with a fresh name and new identity.

2. Do you promote titty flashing and all-nighters?

Of course. I only breast-fed for a few months and in all honesty, was not a fan, but I am all for the breastfeeding, titty flasher and non-breastfeeding titty flasher. The all-night mother-baby party is also something that excites me. In my past life as a GGW, I had no idea that my future life as a GGC would have such a similar sleep schedule. Like, wow!

3. Were you ever featured in Girls Gone Wild, the Filmz?

Sadly, no. I have had two breast reductions so although my breasts were surgically "done" they were not without serious scarring. In other words, my boobz are not as photogenic as say, most girls my age. Not a problem. I'm okay with that. Who the hell, cares. The filmz are boring anyway.

4. How Many websites do you have?

I own several domains, including (jealous?),, and I now have two blogs, not including CBH, which has been collapsed into GGC. Pointy Toe Shoe Factory is my original blog (launched almost three years ago) and I started a Baby blog because the PTSF was turning into one anyway. And also, everyone else was doing it.

5. I hate the new name. What were you thinking?

That is tough. I like it. I think it's funny and clever for I am a girl who has gone child and there is another CBH out there who deserves her own space.


P.S. Thank you for your comments, support and feedback during this transitional time.

Halloween: One Week Late

I forgot to post Archer pics from Halloween. He had three costumes, all gifts so I made sure to dress the poor kid up all day. Here is the first batch of "Archer the Tiger" photos. Archer the devil coming soon.


The Where Are They Now File:

Kendra and I = A momz and a momz to be? The times they have a cha-changed, boy.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbors Stroller

The eleventh commandment may have been omitted from the original list (of eleven, twelve, twenty commandments?) but hey, Moses was a man, and a stroller would have been hard to push up all that rocky terrain.

Any newish parent knows (even the self-proclaimed low-maintenance momz) the many a strollers out there, what they cost and what it means to push each particular model/brand/style around the block.

GGC readers may or may not know that I was not planning on getting pregnant. No sirree. Me and the old man were dating about five months when my eighth pregnancy test agreed with my seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth.... etc. Four months later, the old man and I married in Vegas and three months after that, Archer was born! GGC readers may or may not also know that I am the only person I am friends with (Yes, I am friends with myself) that has a child. There were those two friends who got knocked up in high school but we kinda lost touch over the years.

Needless to say, between unplanned parenthood and no mommy friends I wasn't exactly paying attention to strollers, station wagons, and other baby products/accessories. Diaper Bags? Huh? Strollers? "It's just a friggin thing to push your baby around in, right?"


The other day, we were at breakfast with some friends when the neighborhood stroller derby walked by.

Stroller Derby: N; A group of four or more moneybags mammas pushing their Kate Spade Maclarens, Bugaboos, Stokkes, clad in Juicy Couture (so three years ago) Ugg boots (we will not go there) and J-LOesque sunglasses (barf).

I watched them pass my Graco carseat two-piece thingy. I lowered my sunglasses. They gave me the once over, one by one and looked away. Bitches. Poseurs. Yuppie-ass Yoga Rat Bitch Fuck Bitches.

Minutes later over breakfast, my friend Jackson asked if there was such thing as a "cool stroller." I said, "yes." He asked if I had a "cool stroller." I crossed my fingers under the table. "Totally."

I was first introduced to the stroller class system at the mall. I was four months pregnant and we ran into a Jappy chick pushing around her Sjklajldsa stroller with her prepped-out husband in tow.

"What is that?" My old man asked. "That's cool."
"Its the blkjskadls. I like it better than the bugaboo."
"Oh, right. The bugaboo."
I didn't know what the hell the bugaboo was but I googled it as soon as I got home. 850 fucking dollars for that dinky little post-modern, cold, ten-speed looking stroller? And so I wanted one. Bad.

Being that we were still barely dating, trying to get the money together to move in together, literally counting pennies for things like, oh, gas money to Vegas for our shotgun wedding and, oh yeah, food. The Bugaboo was totally out of our price range and there was no way in hell I was going to add that to my baby registry so I secretly pined and embraced my Graco with open arms.

"Thank you, Nana!"

Women in Los Angeles do not procreate unless they are rich and very old. (I didn't meet one women younger than 45 in my OB's office.) By Los Angeles standards, we are poor and very young. In the old neighborhood, it didn't matter. Our hood was home to young couples, pro skateboarders and single out-of-work actors; all as oblivious as I was pre-baby of status strollers. It was liberating and especially easy to be a practical mom with little or no stroller envy. The new neighborhood is somewhat of a different story. Being that I am the only mom in the greater Hancock Park/Paramount area that doesn't have at least one Spanish speaking caretaker, not to mention the fact that I have not seen a single Graco stroller while I have lived here. In fact, I have only seen Bugaboos. ONLY. Around here, Chameleons wander the streets, NOT exactly blending in with their surroundings.

The truth is that my stroller is so not cool. Please note that I am not complaining. It's a perfectly wonderful stroller. It has a cute blue plaid design and folds easily. It's practical. Alas, I am not known for being practical. I have never thought of myself as practical. My taste has always been expensive. I have been known to drop an entire month's rent on one pair of Gucci shoes*, or a YSL dress that I will wear maybe once. I have gotten into a lot of trouble overspending, living beyond my means, etc. Practicality is soooooo not in my nature. UNTIL NOW!

I have spoiled myself over the years and am sick and tired of my petty ways. Hence, my induced stroller pride. I try to block out the shmancy local strollers and instead admire the baby inside. Archer could care less, so why should I? After all it his ride. Strollin down the street, speaking baby-o, sipping on form-u-la. With my mind on my diapers and my diapers on my mind...

Easy. Now I simply peak into every expensive stroller I pass and make fun of how ugly the baby is inside. Mean? Not really. I smile. Once in a while I'll say something like, "Awww, look at those eyes!" Don't worry. It's totally okay. I live in Los Angeles. This is how we do things here, trust me. And who knows, maybe with kid #4 the fam will be able to afford, justify, buy the coveted stroller. As for now, The Stroller Derby wanders by, pushing their trolls down the boulevard, adjusting their color-coordinated diaper bags, the butt of all my jokes. Bitches.

Sorry, Moses. You shoulda made it eleven.


*My shoes grew since birthing a child, so if anyone wears a 9.5 narrow, call me. I have a closet full of fabulous shoes and they do not fit.

Back Atcha With XXXtra Room

We are all moved in. Minus a couch and a few chairs we are set! Archer has his own room, complete with curtains and alligator throw rug and a crib! Finally we were able to take the crib out of the box, stashed in my parents garage. Our house is so friggin huge I even bought a baby monitor today. I know. Imagine!!! The one-room palace had nothing on the new digs.

Our Move: In Summary

-Four exhausted lovers quarrels, one resulting in tears.
-Four kiss and makeout sessions.
-Two out of three of us came down with some kind of "Moving on up" sickness. (Me and the Archer were snotting and sneezing the whole weekend long.)
-I pulled my arm out of its socket. (I am pretty sure.) My old man fucked up his shoulder and between the two of us, we managed to collect two dozen bruises. (Seriously, we counted.)
-Got in a fight with the manager at Best Buy.
- Moved a giant television in and out of my car twice. Dropped it. Broke it. Made up excuse for its behavioral problems and managed a new one (with a fight, hence above.)
- Gave away couch before we found a new one. I had no idea the wait for couches is 10-20 weeks on average, except of course if you would like to purchase the couch in the stock fabric which is always tacky. (Why the hell is that, btw? How hard is it to make a stock fabric that isn't repulsive? )
-Ran into Punky Brewster at the local baby boutique and those two witches from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.
- Got one parking ticket.
- Survived move with sicky five month old, sicky momz and overworked popz.
-Decided that the next time we move will be when we leave Los Angeles...