Two Piece or Not Two Piece: The Bathing Suit Conundrum

Post inspired by Weirdgirl.

I didn't want to have to blog about this. Frankly, I didn't even want to have to think about this but with a trip to San Diego for the July 4th weekend and a My-Parents-Are-In-Russia-So -We-Can-Have-a-Pool- Party-with -A-Kegger-And-Do- Canonballs-with-Beers-in- Our-Hands-Because- My-Parents- Are-Out-of- Town! upon us I feel the need to express my concern: I have no idea what kind of bathing suit to wear.

I have not purchased a swimsuit since Archer was born. I have not purchased one since way before I was pregs and kinda rocked the same tie-dyed two piece for a couple years prior. I know, peace, right? Peace and hemp.

The last time I owned a one-piece I was six. It had polka-dots and a ruffle on the butt. I grew up in a bikini and like the photo you will see coming up on your right (sounds like we're on the Jungle Cruise) was quite comfortable wearing one, er, half of one. (Shut-up, it was the summer of exhibition and flat-chestedness and yes, feel free to make fun of/and or black mail me when I run for political office.)

Where I grew up bikinis were like breathing. It didn't even matter if you couldn't pull it off. I fondly remember Katie Nameshavebeenchangedenstien who clocked in at about 300 Lbs and still rocked the bikini without the slightest concern. She just threw on a pair of Roxy Board shorts and paddled out with the rest of us, not to mention she was a waaaaaay better surfer than us little things. Whateva.

I know it sounds ridiculous but when I think of a one-piece I think of this frightening cover-up that out-of towners seem to love*. I believe they sell them on old-folks-homes and Miami thrift shops. I also think of those hideous things with the built in skirts.

But lastly and perhaps more importantly, when I think of a one-piece I think of my Mom. For the record my Mom wears way cute one-pieces and she looks smoking hot for 50. The woman is a total GILF and I can only hope and pray I grow up to look like her. Hubba-hubba. BUT she is 50 and I am 25 and I'm not sure if I'm ready to retire the triangle top and join the the club. I'm just not sure.

This painful limbo winds like the path I hath traversed by my lonesome for over a year now. I weigh the pros against the cons and back again. I search the web almost daily for something cool and vintage and perhaps red or polka-dotted that might be hot enough for me to cross over from the beloved two-piece to one without aging 25 years.

I have discussed this matter with several people. One of whom recommended the in-betweeni. The "tankini." I have always been positively anti-tankini just as I have always vocalized my disdain for juicy-couture sweatsuits and swarovski crystals. I wish they would be outlawed worldwide but alas, first we need a new administration and then a few other million-trillion things and then we can talk fashion crimes. I am keeping a list though, fyi.

I tried on my old b-suit the other day and it was fine-ish. It fit, yeah but there was something not quite right. Oh yeah. I remember now. There's that whole stretched-out belly thing. Do I really want to flaunt that shit? I mean, if I happened upon me at the beach wouldn't I want me to put that away? Or would I be proud? Would I be like, "hell, yeah Mommy-bitch! Embrace your postpartum bod with pride!" Would I smile and secretly throw-up in my mouth? WHY DO I CARE SO MUCH!?

It's like this. Ditching the bikini, though seemingly trite and no-big-deal-ish feels like a really big deal to me. It means I'm done with that. In this case that is a very loaded word that goes beyond a tan tummy and tying bikini ties in creative ways-- a kris-kross here, a loopty-lou there. Sex appeal and style replaced by function and I hate function.

Ditching the bikini for the one-piece feels like going from young and sexy to old and utilitarian. It means I'm going from twenty-something to simply, "Mom". Isn't there a way for me to be both? Pretty please?

But how?

It's this goddamn circle I've been spinning in, blindfolded for months. Please, oh please, point me toward the pinata.


*Actually I'm kind of thinking the cover-up bikini-bod monstrosity might look really hot worn as a smock with some knit leggings and ballerina flats. Don't tell Lindsay. She'll for sure bite it.

It Takes The Village, People III: Tabloids in the Hood

The other day me and the forward facing Archer Sagebrush made the trip up the mighty hill to visit Uncle Frank for BBQ and Celebrity Gossip. Apparently his new pad has been quite the popular stomping ground for tourists the world over. It took poor Uncle Frank several camera-dodging incidents before he did the research and found out he was living in Jim Morrison's old pad. Break on through to the other side, dudes.

We are pretty much psychotic in love with Uncle Frank, my former roommate and BFF. He was there when I found out I was preggerz. He was the token man at my baby-shower and he is the only babysitter we have ever had. He loves Archer and we love him. That's right, dude. We lurve you. To the moon. You and your pink Escalade.

Thus far, Uncle Frank has been a tour de force in Archer's life, instilling a strong sense of fashion, hygiene, hair-care and of course, Madonna.

When we arrived at his new pad we were welcomed with a spread of delicious foods and tab-rags. Hog heaven.

About five poached eggs later, Frank sat down beside Archer on the floor and presented him with US Weekly. Lesson One? Britney Spears. "The bitch looks like shit and K-fed's in the basement. No joke. Aren't you glad your Mommy doesn't cruise around wearing tubes and candies?"

Archer nodded, obviously and turned the page:

"What the hell is this?" Archer asked.
"Bad fashion. Close your eyes."
"I like butterflies!"
"Not on a gown, bub."
Archer took notes and turned the page...

Here, let me help you rip Jennifer Anniston's face in half. She bothers me as well.

"Yes, and that's Ashton in a skirt. I'm undecided about that one."
"Mommy has a skirt just like that!"
"Yes but Mommy doesn't have a mustache."
"Yes she does."

"Rebecca, please stop with the photos. We're mid-lesson."
"Uncle Frank! Look here! Reese Witherspoon is Pregnant!"
"No, she isn't. She just likes to wear peasant blouses from last season. Poor thing."

"Uncle Frank? I have a question."
"Yes, Archer."
"Why does Rachel Zoe look like she is 789 years old?
"Because she is. Where do you think she comes up with all of those fabulous vintage pieces?"

"So Archer, tell me what you learned today?"
"I learned that stars are just like me! They grocery shop and tie their shoelaces."

"What else did you learn?"
"Well, I learned that 70% of Time Square thinks Heidi Klum looks better in the red Valentino than Maria Menounos. I also learned that Butterflies aren't chic on gowns and I learned that Ashlee Simpson had a nose job but it looks good and I learned that everyone has new babies and everyone is pregnant and Jake Gyllenhal drinks coffee and I learned that Nicholas Cage was at Sushi Roku last Friday and Paris Hilton has converted to Rastafarianism.

Frank proudly shook his head, shed a tear or two and handed Archer over to me.

"My work here is done," he said.

His final advice to Archer for the day?

"If you find anyone outside your house, snapping photos of you in your boxer-briefs picking up the newspaper, you've either "made it big" or you accidentally moved somewhere on the Map of the Stars."

Archer nodded understandably and crawled off into the sunset where I promptly picked him up, stuck him in the car and we made our way back down the hill.


Poo-Poo Haiku, Part Two: Enduring Raisins

I Love Raisins
By: Archer

Raisins every day
I always swallow them whole
They taste good for me

I Don't Love Raisins

By: Mommy

It's quite curious
How a pooped-out raisin can
Still look good as new


This Milk is the Breast!

Speaking of Punk'd. These dude's got "Duct'd" er, "Nippled!" Er... "Breasted!" Okay, I'm going to stop now. Be sure to crank the volume. The music is oh-so funky.

Welcome to the new improved titty-flashing all morning-er.


I'm Serious. Where the Eff is Ashton?

I'm thinking about starting a new blog and calling it. "WHAT THE FUCK, CAR!?" I'm also checking every bush for a skirt-clad Kutcher in a trucker cap, giggling like a school boy.

Not to mention an incident last week when my passenger mirror was knocked cockeyed by a palm tree that decided to tumble down on me at a stoplight. I can see what's going on under my car. (Ground control to major Tom.) As for the huzzy's car, I'm kind of thinking we should just cut the top off and make it a convertible. Either that or maybe we need to move.

Um...Portland? Earth to Portland! Come in Portland. I want to live in you. Either that or I would like trade the Civic in for a tank.


Turn the Seat Around

There comes a time in a young man's life when he must face forward. He must watch the road, instead of the back of the seat. He must make adorable faces as he smiles back from the rear view mirror. He must change the world one flirty-face at a time. He must play peek-a-boo and throw crackers at the back of my head. He must kick the seat and make clever sounds as he waves to the trees from his throne. He must grow up and be manly.

*clearing throat*

Without further ado:

Oh yeah.
Ch-check it!
This is how we do.


Thirteen Months: My Little Teenager

Dear Archer & Pox,

You are thirteen-months today, you little teenager you. Right smack on schedule you have become a squinty, devil-eyed, cackling rebel. Why? WHY!?

First let's talk fingernails. You will not let me cut them anymore. Bad for you and worse for me as I am constantly given the once-over, scratchmarks down my arms, neck and chest. I look like a victim of assault and/or obsessed with slitting my wrists the wrong direction and/or a cat lady. As you know I dislike cats about as much as I dislike born-again-Christian rock bands so this is really unsettling. Your toe nails are also quite long and I'm considering giving you a ghetto-fab mani-pedi. Maybe with a little butterfly stencil or a flower? Wuah-ha-ha! How about that for revenge? But seriously. Your claws are becoming an issue. This aint swell, dude.

Second, I would like to take back everything I said about wanting you to crawl. Please regress so I can have my sanity back. In the past hour alone, you pulled 7201 books off the shelf, about a zillion CD's, you broke a remote control, ate a spider, swam in the dog's water bowl. You hid out in my closet for ten minutes with 89 pairs of shoes and when I found you, you were eating my favorite Gucci sandal, you then sorted through the dirty laundry and spread it all over the kitchen. You decided to sit on "Coo-ca" thus pissing him off. You tore this month's Vogue, and I wasn't finished reading about Kate Hudson and gagging myself over her adorablity. You clawed me a hundred times, you emptied a box of legos and pushed them all under the couch. You emptied a bag of wooden blocks and pushed those under the couch. You knocked over your stroller, you somehow found a small wooden object and chewed it. You threw-up something that looked alive, you banged your head against the coffee table until you cried, you locked me in the bathroom, you broke into my car and drove it away. Seriously. All of this actually happened (except for the car-driving part.)

Lastly I would like to comment on your diet. Bread and water? Dude. This isn't prison but it might be soon if you keep feeding Avocado, Pesto ravioli and Chicken to the dogs. I want you to be happy, sure, but how can I possibly sit back and watch you eat rocks and sticks and sand? I just don't understand you!? Why do you fill your body with such harmful substance! How could you?

You're only thirteen (months). You have your whole life ahead of you. Please let me cut your fingernails. Please don't try to eat the dog.

I love you anyway, even if you have chosen to join the dark side. It's just a phase. Sigh... Adolescence.

Hangin Tough,



The Nanny Pimp

Sometime last week, Archer and I found ourselves rolling around in the sand at our local park. It was another Nanny day. Women of mainly Central American decent crowded around the edge of the sandbox, speaking Spanish and passing the children shovels and pirates booty. Archer and I found a shady spot, roomy enough for the two of us and our bag full o' sand toys and started digging and eating sand. Delicious.

I tried to eavesdrop per usual but my three years of Espanol in high school did little to hone my abilities to understand anything beside talk of school supplies. Tengo un lapiz? Donde Estas la Biblioteca? Puedo ir al bano? I can ask questions about Libraries and bathrooms. I can't understand the latest celeb gossip as told by their nannies.

When a woman with two kids and three nannies showed up, one child in each nanny's arms and the third nanny carrying the diaper bag my jaw dropped into the sand and I lol'ed. I still don't know if I was reacting from hatred or envy but I'm gonna say the latter after one of the kids asked to be picked up and "Mom" pointed to "Nanny #2" to do the dirty work. Meanwhile "Mom" removed her shoes and waved from the sidelines. "Tata, young lads!"

After running out of people to spy on/talk shit about mentally in my mind, I decided to call it a day. We had a whopping one toy remaining after being robbed by the other sandbox kids who wanted at Archer's goods, so Archer and I politely went around the circle asking in Espanol if we could por favor have our rake back. "Hola. Donde estas un bucket y rake y shovel y truck y autobus y bano y papel y sand funnel thing y agua bottle."

I know. I suck at languages but at least I was making an effort. Such a good effort in fact that the nannies believed I was one of them. They introduced themselves one by one and asked if I was new. I didn't know what "new" meant at first but answered with a nod and a "Si, gracias!"

I introduced the nannies to Archer who by then was probably infecting every child with pox (We didn't know he had "it" yet) and the nannies waved and spoke Espanol and I translated.

When we decided finally leave, we didn't get far when one of the nannies called for me, her double stroller in tow and a third child in her arms. She was by far the bad-ass(est) nanny in the park. Big dark eyes, long shorts with an intimidatingly tight braid down her back. I was impressed and a little bit scared.

She looked around and then glared at me. "You aren't a nanny are you," she said, exhaling.

"No. I'm not a nanny."

"Do you have a nanny?"


"Just you?"

"Just me."

"You need a nanny then."

"Not right now, thank you."

"I see. Well, maybe not yet but you will. You can't do it all yourself. It's impossible. You need nanny? I find you nanny. My name is Maria and I can find you nanny anytime."

"O...kay. I'll remember that, thank you."

"I am here every day, in the shaded corner by the swingset. Just find me when you're ready.


"Habla Espanol?"

"Si. Un poco."

"Guioliajksjeihk lakjsl;aoielwjdlksa uytytauytagusda nosotros pioajlskjdkaamos te akjslakjkdioaisud. jahkhakuy!"

I didn't know what she said but I imagine it was very importante. The nanny pimp was speaking in code for sure, either that or it was just really advanced Spanish. Spanish 5, maybe. I only got to Spanish 3. She patted me on the back, nodded her head and checked the palm trees for spies.

"Adios Archer!" She said and looked at me dead in the eye. "We'll talk soon." She then dissapeared into a gated mansion.

I stood in awe for several seconds, thinking how talented I must be for raising a child nanny-less and then my thoughts turned quickly into how much easier life would be with one. I suddenly needed a nanny. I had to have a nanny and as I walked back, slapping my veins and sweating I had to convince myself twas just the Nanny pimp's power of persuasion working it's magic on my SOUL.

People underestimate the pimp/dealer/pusher for sure. She had me going for a while before I remembered that there was no way in hell we could afford one.

But I guess for a pimp that doesn't matter. People will always find a way to get the money and if they can't? Well, they might as well be sleeping with the pesca.

And that's just too grande a risk.


Letter From the Editor: Educating One Another

First let me thank you all for your fascinating, educational comments on my previous post. I had no idea this whole pox-vax-sitch was so common and am annoyed my doctor told me otherwise. My annoyance of doctors has been all to common as of late. The arrogance and "know-it-all-ism" makes me nervous and feel vulnerable. All the money spent on healthcare and it seems to be a masturbation-fest for the doctor while the patient smiles and compliments his/her cock. It's always more about the "facts" than the parent/patient's feelings and I'm already fed up. Perhaps if the facts measured up but no, they do not.

Medicine is as imperfect as anything but for mistakes to happen so commonly? I'm sorry but there is no excuse. There is no excuse for not circumcising my son correctly. There is no excuse for ignoring me over the past year when I have made it clear that "this is not what a circumcised penis looks like." There is no excuse for the having to put my son to sleep so you people can re-do what you messed-up. There is no excuse for insurance not to cover this and for us to have to sue to get the money, money we will not see for many years. There is no excuse for shooting my kid up with shit that's half-assed. No excuse.

The problem is, of course this is my problem. It is my problem and it is your problem and we all live in a yellow submarine.

I tossed the baby books away the minute I started this blog because for one, I'm not a fan of the text book. I'm into winging it. I will not waste my time reading what my child should be doing at this age according to an "expert" with a PhD as suffix. Most importantly though, I can read real Moms who do not have editors to thumb through their experiences and say "Nah. Let's omit this." I can hear your stories, told with your voices, frustrated, exhausted and without getting paid to write about it.

A book strives for perfection. A blog is the plain-ol naked truth and when it comes to educating myself, I want the uncensored, unedited, typo'd version. I want the flesh and fat and cellulite of the truth because that, my people, is not what the doctors give you.

Your comments in my last post made me realize that although we are made to think mistakes are "uncommon" they are more common than we think. So what to do? We must educate ourselves. Tell our stories and pass the word on because when shit happens "now we know." And now I know not to ask for the pox vax and to go to a Mohel to circumcise my sons instead of letting an arrogant "I'm the king of circumcisions" doctor do it wrong. Now I know to ask a zillion questions and to challenge the doctors. Now I know that understanding the risks in everything is as important (more, perhaps?) as understanding the benefits. Malpractice and "uncommon" medical mistakes are brushed under the rug and it is important to speak-out so the truth can find it's way.

I will never be anti-vaccine. My mother wasn't vaccinated and ended up with Polio, BUT I am afraid that medication and vaccines are handed out without caution and proper education. It is up to the mother to look into EVERYTHING. I have seen too many children over the past three years at my job who have almost died from malpractice and mis-diagnosis.

It's big business. Vaccines and medications and take this tablet to sleep and eat and function and walk and be thin and happy. Stay awake with this, swallow this to think less. This one will make your nose run less, this one will turn into a toxic-butterfly and make you smile in your sleep. This shot will cure that and that will do this and state laws say so, and here, take this if he has a fever afterward.

Blogging can be a pretty thankless job so I would like to thank you. All of you. You are my education. Continue to share your experiences. Continue to tell your stories. . You, I will listen to. The doctors? Eh, right now, not so much.


C is for Chicken Pox...

V is for Vaccine.

W is for "Woops! The vaccine gave him chicken pox!"

S is for solitary confinement.

A is for annoyed that we have spent the last three days indoors and when we do leave the house we have to hide Archer under a tarp as not to scare anyone.

U is for "Unusual. This is very unusual for the vaccine to actually give the child chicken pox."

D is for "Duh! So is a car-jacking and the botched circumcision I have not yet posted about (YET!) and, and, and ... Basically we have been hearing a lot of "this is VERY unusual" lately. Call me crazy but I'm waiting for something to actually BE "usual."

O is for Oh well. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

B is for bored. We are extremely bored. B-O-R-E-D.

H is for heatwave, as in it's been 789 degrees every day and the kiddy pool is not big enough for my postpardum ass.

S is for support as in "tech support" as in, has this ever happened to your child? Use your words, please.

G is for GGC

Father's Day Part III: And This One Goes Out 2 MY Daddy...

The following is a rap for my Dad, who has always rapped for me and who I love to the moon and back. Actually more like to Pluto or whatever star is farthest away. (Dad, you know better than I...)

Who's Yo Daddy? Larry is. Larry is my Daddy as a Matter of Fact.

If you ask me, "who's yo daddy" I'm gonna say it's Larry.
He's a mad scientist but I swear he isn't scary
He travels incognito with all the top secret spies
He almost went to the Olympics, almost won the Nobel Prize. (no shit!)

This rhyme is all for him because it's Father's Day today
And for all the times he's raised the roof for me, I gotta say...
Thank you for your awesomeness, you super-hero goof!
All the times you stood beside me, gave me hugs or wrote me spoof(s)...

I've been thinkin quite a lot 'bout the moments super treasur't
Like all the road trips with the fam to the middle of the desert
Father daughter camping trips to Julian and Catalina
That shit was cooler than an ice cold jug of Aqua Fina!

Kareoke on a cruise. He said "daughter, grab your coat!"
"We're about to rock the ship and sing some "row-row-row-your-boat!"
So we headed to the stand, with a microphone in hand
And sung a super sick duet like we was really in demand! (say, word)
And after rowrowrow-your-boat (yo!) We was just like movie stars!
Signing crazy autographs and playing custom-made guitars

I remember cruisin in the S'bru with you and all my bitches
You made a punny joke and had all us girls in stitches.

And I'll never forget the other day when you was outside playin'
With Archer in the grass and how he giggled, I'm just sayin...
You's a word-up wicked Grampopz, from your toenail to your hair(y).
When peeps ask me, "who'yo daddy, I be like "Yo! His name is Larry."



Happy Father's Day Part II: Bowie & Ben

Okay. SO. I have been trying to find the You Tube video/ live performance of David Bowie singing Kooks because it's my all time favorite song about fatherhood. Unfortunately I have been on a mission for weeks to find the damn video and have found that no such thing exists SOOOO I am including the lyrical workings of David Bowie and his song, "Kooks" written for his son, Zowie Bowie (Heh) and sure to make the world weep. (Or maybe it's just me.)

If anyone has any way to find this video (live performance or otherwise) or even a link to the MP3, please let me know. I'm really bad at this stuff and if you are not familiar with the song, is pure perfection on a platter:


[CHORUS (x2)]
Will you stay in our Lovers' Story
If you stay you won't be sorry
'Cause we believe in you
Soon you'll grow so take a chance
With a couple of Kooks
Hung up on romancing

We bought a lot of things
to keep you warm and dry
And a funny old crib on which the paint won't dry
I bought you a pair of shoes
A trumpet you can blow
And a book of rules
On what to say to people
when they pick on you
'Cause if you stay with us you're gonna be pretty Kooky too


And if you ever have to go to school
Remember how they messed up
this old fool
Don't pick fights with the bullies
or the cads
'Cause I'm not much cop at punching other people's Dads
And if the homework brings you down
Then we'll throw it on the fire
And take the car downtown

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Of course, the runner up to awesome Dad songs is Ben Folds' "Still Fighting It"

(sniff)... About Dads and sons and growing up and love and, and, and... enjoy.

Happy Father's Day to all the Bowies and Bens and Dads with some seriously quirky and rock n roll love for their littles. High-fives all around. Happy day.


Happy Father's Day...

Cuddle, cuddle.

We love you, Huz/Daddy!!!


Momzi & Archer


Long Time Coming

Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn 25. Birthdays are not that big a deal around here, probably because there is usually too much going on to get caught up in the festivities. This year June 17th is sandwiched between my sister's High School Graduation and Father's Day. Congratulations, Rachel! Love you Dad!

This year, however is seemingly a bigger deal than most Birthday years. Not because of the "quarter-of-a-century" thing or because I can now be considered a "mid-twenty-something." (Tre Sophisticated!) Nah, Tomorrow I turn the age I have always lied and said I was.

Truly, I've been faking this shit for years.

Like for instance...

Liquor Store:

"Yeah, Parliament Lights please?"

"How old are you?"




Random Dude(s) from the past:

"So how old are you, anyway?"

"Um... 25. Why?"

Or if you will...

Bathroom of Random Bar

"Dude, I'm so tired of all these teenage bitches sneaking into bars. It's so suburban."

"Yeah. Psh... me too. It's sad, really."

"What's your name?"

"Kristy. Kristy Blahblahblah (name on fake I.D.) By the way, I just turned 25. I feel SOOOOO old."

"Happy Birthday Kristy Blahblahblah. Wanna come throw drinks at "the fake-ID club" with us?"

"Cool! I'm in!"

And then there was...

Waiting Room at the OB

"You're far too young to be pregnant, hon."

"No way! I'm 25."


I always thought 25 was the perfect age, even as a teenager. I so desperately wanted to be older than I was and I faked my way there when I could. I faked doormen and older men and the girls I met along the way. I wanted people to treat me like a woman instead of a teenager. I lied to magazines to get work and was hired as a 25 year-old music journalist. (I was REALLY a 19 year-old Chicken Soup contributor) to write features abroad and do a little "Honeymoon Hot Spot" piece for a popular Wedding Magazine. All expenses paid. Limo service. Five star hotels. Amalfi Coast. I was that good at being "faux 25."

There were several times lying about my age got me into trouble, most usually with older men who do not appreciate being lied to. "I'm actually 19." I was heart-broken several times after lying about my age only to confess months later and then never being called again.

I still wince when people ask for my age because I know what's coming next. "You're just so young!" "When I was your age..." "Never mind, you won't understand."...

I'm not going to lie, it can be really fun "faking it" but there is something very liberating about "keeping it real." I have a long way to go before I figure everything out and I know that. I have a ways before I am completely comfortable with who I am and how I look and what I want and etc, etc infinity. But I do have to say, I don't wish I was older anymore or younger or any other age besides this one. I am happy where I am. I may not have the luxury I once had of spending my birthdays abroad, running all over the place lying to everyone. I may not even look as hot and "pert" naked but shit! It's all about experience, baby. Knowing how to "work it." THAT happens over time.

In our ageist society, getting older is terrifying. I see women every day dress like teenagers, I count the botched nose jobs in the Grocery Store. I'm sure there will come a day (sooner than I think) when I too will count wrinkles and gray hairs and wish they would go away. I might even lie about my age and say I am younger and curse myself for wanting to be older "so many years ago..."

I guess it's hard for one to ever be satisfied. The grass is greener and all that. But the truth of it all is that all my young adult life I have looked forward to FINALLY being 25 and now I know why:

Right here. Right now. This is fucking awesome.


I Think it's An L.A. Thing Maybe?

feel free to correct me if I'm wrong of course...

Today on one of our daily walks, Archer and I (and the dogs) happened upon a man exiting his Bentley in the middle of street only to walk toward the dumpster and go through the garbage bins. He happened upon a decrepid chair, dusted it off and looked up at me.

"This shit is going to look sweet on my hillside-ranch."

"Totally! Get some," I said.

"You never know what you're going to find in the trash."

"You know it's true."

Like they say- One man's trash is a rich man with a ranch in the hills and a Bentley's treasure. What a lucky chair.

This isn't the first time the fam has happened upon a Bentley in Dumpster alley. In our last apartment we came across the *not-so-sober* Eddie Murphy. I'm not even kidding.

Like I said, I think it's an L.A. thing.


SAHPotage : A Yo GGC Rapz 4 My Stay @ Home Peeps

Many of us work from home and or/stay at home with our children. We love our miniature humans of course but there are times when we alllllll (don't deny it) reflect on "different" times. The past! Days when intelligent conversations over coffee were habitual and debaucherous nights on the town were, well, existed.

For this GGC, there is no longer titty-flashing all-nighters up in this piece (new OR improved.) This a modern world and stay at home parents are frequently frowned upon by former co-working career peeps and urbanites. Baby-rearing in Hollywood may be cool but only when you can leave your kids with eight nannies and continue traveling the world saving orphans. (GGC cannot pull this off.)

It's called SAHPotage, people... Stay at Home Parents, this one's for you. Thanks to Metrodad for the inspiration and The Beastie Boys for the OG version


There are days I just can't stand it. Don't want to handle it
I'm talkin' to the dogs like they could understand it.
No adult conversation, I'm at the station (gas)
Making friends with the pump, giving out my information
I meet tonsa baby's mammas, bitches s'posed to be my peers.
But when I ask what they be reading, they's like, "Only Doctor Sears!"
Mommy Movies, Trader Joes, making convo at the park
Coveting Maclaren's stroller, the one designed by Philippe Starck.
"Can't you talk anything but poop?" Time to take out the garbaaaage
I'm Tellin' All Y'all It's SAHPotage

So Listen Up 'Cause You Can't Say Nothin smart
And (for real) neither can I so I really shouldn't start
I remember the days when I be all about good talkin
Philosophy and lit replaced with, "look! he's almost walkin!"
Back in the BB* days I was like "Fuck yeah! Let's get crazy!!!"
Now the ideal night is like, "Heck yes! Let's be lazy."(Burp)
Come 11pm I'm Out And I'm Gone
Those all-nighters of my past? I Dream On And On

You're Scheming On A Thing That's A Mirage
These days it has a name and It's SAHPotage

Listen All Of Y'all It's A SAHPotage
Listen All Of Y'all It's A SAHPotage
Listen All Of Y'all It's A SAHPotage
Listen All Of Y'all It's A SAHPotage

I Can't Stand It, I know you planned it
But I'm tired of the hype, this stereo-type
You looking at me sideways like this shit is fuckin' easy
SAHParenting, cooking, cleaning, blogging, working a day job, working on a novel, freelancing, writing raps... FO SHEEEEEZY!
Because I Feel Disgrace Because You're All up In My Face
But Make No Mistakes And Switch Up My Channel
I don't watch no Oprah and I don't wear no flannel.

Don't ask me why I'm crying, I need a foot massage!
You think I just talk baby? - That's SAHPotage


Word to the Mothaz...

*Before Baby

Wanna read more YO GGC Rapz? See sidebar. Wrecka, wrecka.

GGC Experiments: "The Mommy Movie"

There is something called the Monday Mommy Movie and as far as I know it happens in cities and counties around the country. (Perhaps maybe you, my readers will enlighten me on this.) Anyway, we have one too. The Monday Mommy Matinee. Yes, alliteration is cutesy as a cupcake. Count me in.

Our MMM is @ 11:00 at The Grove Theme Park/no you're not in Las Vegas you're on Fairfax/take a trolley from Gap to Banana Republic which is two stores away/Mall. It happens every week and women and nannies swarm the main event, strollers and picnics and toy-bags OH MY!

I had never experienced the Monday Mommy Movie until Yesterday. My neighbor and her daughter and me and Archer made a date. Rolling solo, no more. Foursome represent.

We cruised, set up camp in the theatre with our little people and waited.

Momz and our offspring, women breastfeeding infants, and some of them, full grown men. (Hmmmmm...) Some Mommies followed their crawling babies through the isles and popped Gerber snacks like popcorn. Others passed out diapers and binkies and baggies. Unfortunatley there was no flask-passing. Whatever.

There were no trailers. (My second favorite part of seeing a movie.) Why? Perhaps because the "Mommies" were not the target demo for X-Men 3, the film we were all there to see. Another reason, perhaps that the theatre was relatively empty. Either that or the ol' "It's Bret Ratner, hon, don't waste your time..." conversation, happening over breakfast the city over.

For a few minutes I was digging the scene. Archer was snacking on a granola bar, sprawled at my feet with his blankie and my wallet (his favorite toy.) But then about ten minutes into the movie the bass boomed and the blonde ken-doll looking dude grew wings and Archer got scared. Really scared. Clawing at my face scared.

The other littles seemed relatively unphased. At first I thought Archer was just overtired and being difficult but then I remembered who his mother is. Me? Ding-ding!

As a baby/child/adult I was very sensitive. A babysitter once put on monster truck racing and I screamed and cried and kicked and wailed and had nightmares for months. Her name was Tracy. Tracy the monster truck bitch with acid-washed jeans. I hated her because she watched evil television. Monster trucks were eeeeevil and so was she. I had her promptly fired.

Archer and I bailed the MMM to play "Trader Joes Shopping" instead but poor Archer didn't sleep the rest of the day. He wanted to be held and was constantly looking over his shoulder. Paranoid Boy to the max. (Blue hairy dudes can do that to a little boy. Perhaps its too early to introduce him to Cookie Monster, eh?)

In Conclusion: I should have known my offspring might carry my sensitive gene. I know now. No more Mommy movies for this duo. We're of the "play in the field" variety. Back to our solo-park missions we gooooooo.

I would, however recommend the Monday Mommy Movie Matinee for peeps with less sensitive littles and/or to Mommies with super-duper newborns/infants. Dem peeps were chillin. Those Mommies were enjoying the show, more than ten minutes of it at least.


Pooping in the Bathtub: A #2 Haiku x 2

I Pooped in the Tub
By: Archer

I make kicks and laugh
Then I make a floating duck
My Mommy looks scared

He pooped in the Tub
By: Mommy

Twas like any bath
Until I lifted him up
Wouldn't call that "duck"


Speaking of Late Bloomers...

... Someone just took his first knee-steps. Yup, that's right. The anti-crawler has joined the party and he's getting there like this:

Video Hosting - Upload Video - Video Sharing

Or, if you prefer:

Video Hosting - Upload Video - Video Sharing

I think I just learned a very important lesson in parenting. If you stop keeping track of what should be happening at what age and who should be doing what according to charts and graphs and "experts" and averages, then parenting is so much more enjoyable and I have a feeling childhood is too.

I think a lot of what turns me off to the Moms I meet is the whole, "my child must be a genius because she can read at 6 months," or "my child must be slow because he STILL hasn't rolled over and according to the book..." I can't say I have not done the same thing. It's near impossible not to worry or take notice of the fact your child is in the 3rd percentile for this and 96th for that.

The minute I stopped with the tummy time and the "come on follow me, dude!" crawl around the house was the minute Archer decided to crawl. On his own. When he felt like it. And now he can't stop.

And of course it would be so! Do I remember nothing from my youth? When a parent says yes, the child says no. Always. Pushing leads to pulling back, so this is me telling you, Archer to do what you need to when you need to do it. This is your life after all.


Keep it on the Down-low

I have a confession to make. A secret.

Shhhh, don't tell.

After all the kicking and screaming and trying to get the pirate to bed and sneaking out of rooms and trying to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Arch (How I wonder, are you parched?) over and over without the squeaky voice-crack-puberty thing happening, after he finally dozes off and the house is quiet and I have the "time" I so whine about not having ALL DAY LONG to write, I kind of miss him. Like right now. Miles Davis and ceiling fans and no "cooca-cooca-cooca-eh"s to distract me and I kind of want to be distracted. Dude. Not cool. It's contrary to my whole plan.


Welcome to My Dollhouse: Adventures in Puberty

I was what one might call a "late bloomer." The boys at school called me "flat-as-a-board-Becca" all through middle school. They held up their school books and whispered, "Look, it's your chest." (see above photo. I am the tall one on the left.) When my friends were starting their periods and shopping for bras with their moms, I was stuffing my shirt and posing sideways in front of the mirror, you know, just to see what I would look like.

At summer camp all of us girls devised a plan to shave our body hair as sort of a fraternal bonding experience between bunk-mates. I had barely even sprouted pubes but I shaved what I had with the rest of my friends and we started a secret pube-free club that ended up getting us practically thrown out of camp for being deviants. It was the beginning of sex and sexuality and hooking up with boys and "girl talk." It was the summer of skinny dipping and borrowing clothes and rounding second base.

Because I was the last of my friends to have a period, I decided to lie and say I had already started mine. During lunch when a friend had to go change her tampon I was so totally there.

"Omigod. I have such bad cramps right now. It sucks. Do you have a tampon I can borrow?"


Years passed and nothing. I figured that making out with boys on the beach would at least warrant me some "growth," perhaps maybe a B cup or, shit, some kind of cup! I was the training-bra chick in the locker room who knew how to change the "secret way." No bra or lack of boobage exposed.

By the time I started my period I was relieved. I was also what I thought to be a "pro" at this point. I had faked my womanhood for years now and had total confidence that I knew what I was doing and needed no help from anyone. Hell, I didn't even need to read the directions on the Tampax box. Psh. I so totally had it under control.

I had heard from my friends that pads were disgusting and tampons felt like "nothing" and were so much better. I trusted my friends. They were cool. They knew shit like I did and that was why we were friends. We knew everything. We were like adults but smarter.

I went straight for the tampons and never looked back. Unfortunatley for me, the whole tampon thing was a little more uncomfortable than my associates had promised. I thought maybe it was a first-time thing and hobbled to soccer practice, excited to bitch and moan about having a period and "does anyone have any Midol? My cramps are so totally sucking right now, like, serious."

I Arrived at soccer practice white as a ghost and in terrible pain. I was trembling from what felt like squatting on a blender. It was totally contrary to my plan.

"Are you okay, Becca?"

"Yeah. You know. My period. It just sucks. I'm in a lot of pain. I have a migraine. Does anyone need a tampon?"

Luckily for me, our soccer practice was pretty mild ever since our coach walked, er stomped out on us during a game and never came back. Our team had somehow accidentally been placed in a competitive league and we were quite literally unable to perform. Our German former soccer-pro dude with the pony-tail bailed after I accidentally scored a goal against our own team (my only goal scored my entire soccer career).

We were later left to coach ourselves which meant braiding each others hair during warm-up and writing our names in lipstick on the soccer balls we then kicked at the fence for 45 minutes, gushing over Luke Perry and Jonathon Brandis all the while.

I barely made practice that day, crying in secret from the pain. I was sorry I had waited all these years to be tortured so. What a waste of life.

I had all but given up two days later when I was scrounging the house for maxi pads. Cool or not cool, tampons were the devil. It was a simple choice of wearing a diaper or shooting myself. I flipped a coin.

I don't remember how it happened, the impetus behind my sitting down for five minutes with the tampax pamphlet to actually read the directions. I had known-it-all most of my life and at that moment, bored of praying to a God I didn't really believe in anyway, I thought, "what the hell? Maybe the whole throbbing pain thing was because I did something wrong. It was almost possible.

And there it was, folded up in tampax origami fashion- diagram and all, proof I had indeed inserted the thing totally wrong. And there I sat, feeling like such a royal idiot I started to cry. To my utter shock, one was not supposed to insert the whole thing in their vagoo, cardboard applicator and all. That's right, the applicator that was scraping me to death was trash. Hell, I could even flush it down the toilet!I had been throwing away the wrapper and the rest, well... up we go! No wonder I was in agony for a week!

When the next month rolled around, shit was easy peasy. Periods were cool. Painless. No problem at all. And it's even possible I might have learned something out of the whole debacle: Following directions once in a while might be something to try more often.

I never told any of my friends what happened. I never told anyone that I started my period at fourteen, well after I had rounded third base. I never told anyone that all those borrowed tampons went straight in the garbage bin and the Midol too. And as the years passed and I went from flat-as-a-board Becca to DDDcup-then-two-breast -reductions Becca and I mastered the art of being "on the rag" and then not being on the rag (ah, sweet pregnancy) I have finally come to a point where the most hellishly embarrassing moments of my adolescence are kind of worth sharing.

Because one of the greatest parts about getting older is inching away from the embarrassing stories of youth and finally being able to laugh at ones own expense.

Without further ado: Hahahahahahahahooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooey! Aha Aha Ahahhaha. Ha. Hee. Hoo. Heh. Sniff.


The Week in Photos

Hey denim-skirtista. Wanna swing?

Whatever baby. Give it a few years. You'll be back.

No I'm actually 1-years-old but people confuse me for an older man all the time.

I know, I know. It's my momz fault. She has this "thing" for Henry Miller.

Totally. I'm like "Earth to Momz. He's dead. Give it a rest. She's like hanging copies of Tropic of Cancer from my mobile. I'm like, "I get it."

Representing da east coast on da westside. Fist to the chest, Chag...

No offense, Uncle Dave but what the hell is this thing?

Dude. Not cool.

Great. Now everyone's involved and I'm going to have to pretend like I'm down with the bubble teapot. What-ev-a.

And then Uncle Dave ate my head. That was a pretty weird time.

I'm looking for my Lego-eye. Maybe you've seen it? Maybe not. Okay, fine then. DON'T HELP ME.

This isn't my lego-eye! Impostors!!!

Aw. This isn't fair. I'm so not aware right now. Eye? Can you hear me? Oh, eeeeeyyyye?

Christ, woman. You need a serious tan. Ahhhhhh! I've gone blind! My eyes!!!

Christ, GRAND-woman. You need a tan too. Ahhhhhh! I've gone blind! My eyes!!!

Christ, self. Even I need a tan. Ahhhhhh! I've gone blind! My eyes!!!

Hey, grandpa? Do you have any self-tanner?