A New Way to Ride

Archer's favorite game is "This is the Way", as in, bounce him on your knee and chant: This is the way the ladies ride... Kid-e-lop, kid-e-lop, kid-e-lop, kid-e-lop. And then there are the gentlemen (who ride a little faster) and the farmer (faster) and the something-something (even faster) and the spaceship (fastest, around the room, flips and leaps and etc).

Although we are big fans of "This is the Way..." I find our version a little outdated and BO-RING so I made up a new version for Angeleno parents. Stay tuned for the Northern California/and or Oregonian version, This is Way the Goddess' Ride.

Feel free to try this with your little homie, be you in Los Angeles or anywhere in the world!

This is the Way the Bitches Ride

This is the way the bitches ride.
Buy my tits, buy my gas, buy my car, oops I crashed it.
This is the way the homies ride.
Plasma tv, in my steering wheel, windows down, spinner reems.
This is the way the Agents ride
Expensive gas. Who do I look like? Oy and vey. Call my Lawyer.
This is the way the premier ready movie-stars ride
Pick me up! (In my) Stretch Hummer Hybird! Because I care! Global Warming!

And this is the way the Scientology-ship riiiiiiiiiiiiides....
Close your eyes! Suri cruise! To the moon! Suri Cruise!

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee! AND again! A little bit louder now!


Because It's Too Hot to Think Right Now...

And I can't be bothered trying to write something I am going to forward all my peeps to one of my favorite bloggers/lady-mamas in the www.

If you have not found Hot Momma Gossip, please allow me to introduce her to you. She's hot. She's sleeved up. She's very pregnant and she knows the story behind the story behind the story. Behind the story.

Pull up an iced-coffee and go here for good ol' fashioned celebrity gossip... Because it's way too hot to head to the local drug store to pick up the latest tab-rags.



The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on Fire!

Um, hell-looooo? Hell-oh!? 109 degrees in Hollywood this past weekend? No air-conditioning. Sick baby and now sick mommy. Good times. Good times. Truly. And to quote the local news, "Well, folks. You probably noticed it feels like hell here in the city of angels."

We have since escaped the heat and are currently hiding out at my parental's house like refugees. It was so hot I was literally hallucinating when packing my bag and ended up with a bag full of wife-beaters (6) a swimsuit and three bottles of perfume. I suppose subconsciously, smelling good was more important than wearing pants this week, not that it matters. I'm sick and tired and fear that our house has caught fire up in the Ellay and/or my shoes have melted to create leather soup in my closet.

I hate the heat. Hate. I've never been able to handle it when it gets above 80 and feel like punching someone in the face right now I'm so irritable and bleh.

I'll let you in on a little secret that isn't quite a secret in our house because I'm constantly whining about it: I'm ready to move. I've been ready for about five years now. When I met my baby's papa I had just registered with the peace corps to volunteer as a sex-educator in Morocco. (And here I am complaining about the heat, right? I wouldn't have lasted a week there. I would have gone berserk.)

Now that I am married with a child, the peace corps is out and now that I am married to a man who works in television, moving out of hot-as-balls-lately-LA isn't in our near future either, although this week I have been pushing- hard.

"There's TV in Portland (and Cookies, glorious Cookies.) You could work on the news, maybe?"


"What? Or Seattle. Don't you know people in Seattle?"

"Not the right people."

"What about Vancouver? Everyone is shooting in Vancouver these days. Canada is so hot right now or New Zealand? You can catch up with Peter Jackson and we can enjoy a moderate climate and people who don't drive Hummers to the grocery store."

"We'll see."

Am I making progress? Perhaps. But as we kick around my parents house, me in my wife-beaters and perfume, Archer in his diaper and snot-nose, living off the land (aka my parent's refrigerator) I'm kinda wondering if we should just make our home here. There's a pool, free food and a roof over our heads that isn't on fire.

Refugees represent in the 760. At least until it pipes the f down up there in hell.


Girl's Gone Girl-Crush'n

If you haven't already read about my moment with Chan Marshall of Cat Power, you can read about it right here on nerve.com.

Say, word.


Admit It. You Wear Zit-Cream to Trader Joe's Too.

Because if you have a child you are LYING when you say you do not. LYING I tell you.

For me, it's just a thing I have like how some people have terrible hyena-laughs or a third nipple. For me, I have the ability to embarass myself constantly without knowing, at least not right away.

Like in high school when I got the balls to confess my love and desire to make sweet third-base with a neighborhood boy, only to come home feeling proud of my bold statement, crushed when I smiled for the mirror to find the biggest piece of spinach between my two-front teeth.

There was also the time I got bird-pooped on (my head, hair, back) and kept on strutting down Rodeo, flaunting the oversized Louis Vuitton bag I had just spent my rent-money on. (I may have had a slight spending problem in the past.)

There was the time with the face mask and the booty-call. I somehow forgot to remove the thing after my booty was called and woke up stuck to my sheets and wondering why booty-call-dude never said anything. Perhaps a Shrek fetish or worse.

I'm the person who always ends up sitting in the one puddle on a sunny, summer day. (WTF?) and as far as the spinach-tooth incident goes, I have a spinach incident pretty much once a week. I'm always stained, dirty with something, confident in my ignorance, strutting my stuff like an oblivious fool.

Having a child does not minimize this problem even though I figured with all of my new attention to detail it would. Ha, no. Sadly, my little problem has gotten worse.

It's been very hot so clothes are not an option at the present time especially because we do not have AC. 109 degree weather and you'd be cardio-stripping too. Lately, I answer the door in whatever's in grabbing reach, sometimes a trench coat, sometimes a board book, never anything appropriate. No better way to frighten away the Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists, Republicans, UPS guy. (Wait! UPS guy! Come back!) I also always seem to burp while on hold with Health Net just at the precise time the operator clicks over. I think it's safe and then "Hello, Ms. Woolf?" Or worse? Sometimes I'll be mid-pee on speakerphone. "Hold on! Just one second-- just washing my hands over here. Heh."

I like to think I am somewhat put together but lately I seem to arrive everywhere with something out of wack, a face half-made up, two different shoes. (Hey, if Carrie pulled it off in Sex and the City. Look, it's me! Bex in the city! Drum roll! Oh! Okay, sorry. See? Even my sense of humor is awkward and unrefined! WWAWD?*)

I pulled another "How the hell did you leave the house like that" moment the other day when I caught myself in the reflection of the frozen-Morningstar-goods section at the local Trader Joe's. Oh. My. God. My face was freckled with zit-cream, dried and cracking zit cream like that terrible photo of Britney Spears (see above). I was horrified. I madly spat on my hands, rubbing my face wildly, pulling my hair over my face in Michael Jacksonian disguise.

Did anyone notice? Um, duh! But at least it was low-tide (before noon) so there was only minor foot traffic, most of which being Hasidic Jews who don't exactly run in my social circle, pediatrician aside.

To make myself feel better I did what all respectable Angelenos do after calling too much "negative" attention to themselves, I got on my cell phone and started talking really loud about my agent and how excited I was for my seven-figure movie deal and "Hahahaha, oh Mr. Weinstein, you are SUCH a doll..."

And like that I was cool again.

In other cities I imagine it isn't so easy or maybe it is. You tell me, readers because I'm kinda thinking maybe I'm not the only peep flaunting oxy-10 this season, accidentally of course but nevertheless.

So admit it, people. No more lies. Come clean. You're in a safe place. Here, I'll pass you my cell phone. Speilberg's on line two and holding just for you.


*What Would Anna Wintour Do?

Gratuitous Sick-Baby Photos...

Archer's still sick. Fever gone. Snot-nosed Blankie face here to stay. No seriously, that blankie smells like a foot. He will not let me take it away to wash. There are spores forming on the corners. SPORES.

And now for a gratuitous sick-baby mohawk photo:

Style even in sickness.


He Will, He Will, Flirt You. Uh. (Flirt You, Uh)

I'm going to be honest. I am very much a flirt. I flirt with boys, girls, dogs... Pretty much anything with charm, I'm all about it. So is Archer and together we wink and blink and laugh and smile and wave and dance down the street blowing kisses to homeless trombone players with holes in their shoes.

Perhaps this is why it didn't surprise me when the other day I caught Archer playing peek-a-boo with Shaquille O'Neal. Okay, it wasn't REALLY him but it could have been his twin brother. He was very close in size and stature and very serious about the free-weights.

We were at the counter of the gym picking up some Pilates info. I'm about a decade behind when it comes to "it" workouts and thought it would be a good time to get started, you know, right when gym-rats are coming off their pilates high and pursuing aerobic-pole-dancing or cardio-strip. (How can one sexily strip off a sports-bra by the way? It takes me ten minutes to wiggle out of that shit, am I right?)

I'm not one to flirt at the gym or even make eye contact. I never got the whole makeup and hair-down thing either. I'm the girl in the sweats and oversized t-shirt, messy-haired and nondescript, sweating balls. Perhaps this is why I felt so out-of touch at my old gym. (Maybe it's just me but doing abs and arms between Ian Ziering and Gina Gershon is not in my comfort-workout-zone.) At the Y, people just LOOK like celebrities, coming full circle to Shaq-a-like, Archer's new BFF.

"Hey there, man," Shaq-a-like smiled at Archer who by this time was laughing and banging his head so hard into my shoulder (playing peek-a-boo) I was perpetually saying ouch.


"Cute kid."

"He likes you. Ouch."

"Yeah. Is he here to work-out too?"

"Ouch. He's here to play in the daycare, er hold his red blankie, ouch, and watch the other kids play. Ouch."

"Peek-a-boo!" Shaq-a-like wasn't even listening to me. He was too interested in playing and beating Archer at peek-a-boo, hiding behind his computer, crouching behind faux plant, smiling big-eyed.

"Heh. Peek-a-boo says Archer!"

"Peek-a-boo, I see you-ooooo!"

"Okay! Time to go to daycare!!!"

But I guess it wasn't time to go to daycare. Shaq-a-boo wasn't done playing peek-a-boo and Archer was now waving his hand hysterically and reaching out to go home with his new friend and leave me for always.

"He likes me," he said, now on his hands and knees crawling out of the information booth and toward us.

"So, yeah. About that pilates schedule..."

It's pretty amazing what a cute baby can do to a great, big, Paul Bunyan of a man. I started to think, "I have absolutely NOTHING on this kid..." And pretty soon it became a contest.

I pushed out my chest, pouted and gave our new friend the ol wink-bite-the-lip-wink. "So, what's your name, big guy?" (Okay I didn't say "big guy" who am I kidding?)

"Oh, I'm Jerome."

"Great, Jerome. SO nice to meet you. I'm Rebecca. Can I please have that pilates schedule, honey-buns?"

"Sure. Cute kid."

"Thanks. He came out of my va-gi-na." (Dudes! I totally didn't say that!!! I'm so kidding, don't worry.)

"Peek-a-boo. Who's the man? Who is he? There he is!? PEEK-A-BOOOOO!"

Yeah. I know. Peek-a-boo, very sweet. He's the man, I get it. I HAVE TO GO NOW.

Okay, so maybe I was just bitter because I lost the flirt-off. I have to admit, it takes some getting used to. No one warned me about the fact that when you have a baby you suddenly become obsolete. No longer are men, women, dogs looking at YOU. It's all about the kid. It's all about the baby's shoes and his cute little hair stylings and you (the mama) may as well drag around the streets looking like a bag lady. No one cares anymore.

I am not going to lie. If anyone turns their heads these days I wave and cheer. Cat-calls on dog-walks from perverts? Hell yeah! Homeless men looking down my shirt. Holla!

I suppose now I'm going to have to wait for Archer to become fluent in English to ask Shaq-a-Boo himself for the damn schedule. And in the meantime? I'll be the hag pouting in the background like an L-to-the-forehead-LOSER and (sniff) no one will notice.


Say My Name?

I think he can say mama. Just like that one time six months ago I'm pretty sure he said da-gon (dragon) and for a month he called the dog Coo-cah (Cooper) but then the "words" suddenly stopped and we're back to plthhh-hhh and healkljkijakjd! akjslaks? And dit-dit-dit as our language.

"Can he talk?" the people ask.

"Sure. He can talk. He just doesn't feel like it right now or ever actually."

"What can he say?"

"Just you know, the usual stuff."

But today instead of reaching out for me and saying Mama (Which he only does sometimes when he's in the mood *aka* once, three weeks ago) he said "Be-cah" which is my name. Becca. Rebecca. Hi. How you doing.

I was impressed for a minute and then I got this nightmare-ish portrait in my head of me and the Archer ten years from now, windows down, cruising cross-country Diet Soda & Doritos Road Trip and me looking freakishly masculine, kind of like a Desperate Housewife in prosthesis and him being all "Yo Becca, pass the Red Vines" and me being all, "Dude, turn up the stereo, I love this shit," and me giving him a high-five and him calling me Becca and me calling him dude and me losing my hormone medication and being really scared that he might find out the truth about my penis:

"No, baby. It's mama, not Becca."


"Yeah, but no. I really don't want to have that kind of relationship with you. I mean, I want to be your friend and all but I'm not down with the call the parent by the first name thing. Mmmm-mmmm. Not so much. You can call me anything but Becca. You can call me plthhhhhh or if you prefer, "dit"...?


"Really cute and charming but this is it. Final word. End of discussion."

Seriously, end of discussion.

Luckily the name-calling stopped soon after I bribed the little guy with crackers and did my funny-dance which involves a book on my head and a baby monitor as walkie-talkie and a lot of falling on my face. He laughed and forgot all about his new word.

In this modern world I suppose children who call their mothers by first name is bordering on posh. Yes, very Architectural Digestesque. Very CEO Alpha-Mom. There is such a fine-line between that and my white-trash nightmare (great film, btw) Hm. Maybe I had it all backward. Perhaps now I can join the Power-Club for Moms by default.

Power suits, here we come.


My Sick Roommate

It wouldn't be so bad if he paid rent. I mean, coming on fourteen months dude. Time to punch your own weight but NOOOO, it's I need Tylenol for my 102 fever and I need snuggles before naptime and it's like I'm always doing his dishes and driving him around and he never even offers gas money. I mean I probably wouldn't take it if he did but offering? Manners, roommate. Manners.

I've had roommates before. I've even had roommates in the past who didn't pay rent and wanted to sleep in my bed and cried all night and pooped their pants (drunks) but never have I met such a small roommate with such issues with communication.

I wish he would just tell me what he wants or where it hurts or what he feels like for dinner. And it's like now he's sick and he needs water and books read to him and songs and I'm serenading my small flushed roommate on the guitar and I can only remember how to play Misfits, Last Caress.

"I got something to say. (Ba-daaaaw-daw-daw) I killed your baby today..."

And the roommate doesn't even understand the irony. He just watches me behind swollen eyes and looks cute and cute boys have always been my weakness, especially cute boys with colds who need to be taken care of.

Humidifier? Sleepless nights? Who do I look like, his mother?

Oh, alright, fine! I'll just make up different words to the song even though most lullabies are violent and cruel and I'll sing it quieter and up an octave and I'll rub his hair until he falls asleep and blah blah... But seriously when he gets better it's time for him to find himself a job. Pitching-in is key to healthy roommate relationships. A prerequisite even.


When Archers Collide

Sounds like a great album title right? Or perhaps a poem about Orion and Sagittarius at war in the skies? And by poem I'm referring to Jewel as "poet" not Rilke. Who will saaaaaa-aaaaave your soul?...

The childcare at our gym offers a vast selection of boys and girls. You heard me. Boys and girls are everywhere and all named after stars and flowers and something in the sky. It's a bird! It's a plane! No it's... Orion. Or Archer? Wait. YOUR kid's name is Archer? My kid's name is Archer.

As per many parents today, Archer's name came from the well of uncommon names right in there with Reverie for a girl. Coming face to face with another Archer and Co. was slightly annoying and also a major cawinky-dink considering our boys were the same age and looked like they could be brothers.

I could tell I wasn't the only annoyed party. The other Archer's Dad was staring me down, judging my ass. Thankfully I look very tough in a wife-beater.

Blow the whistle, bitches. Let the games begin!

"How old is your Archer?"
"Thirteen months."
"So is mine, well almost fourteen. Mine is a little bit older."
"Why did you name him Archer?"
"Because blah blah blah."
"Is your Archer walking?"
"Nope. Yours?"
"Yeah. He can run too."
"Oooooh, special! Well MY Archer can read US Weekly cover to cover and still have room for Life & Style."
"Well my Archer can do my taxes."
"My Archer likes to pants little girls."
"MY Archer has two Daddies."
"MY Archer has an Uncle Frank and two pet dragons."

That's when we won. WE were better and MY Archer had a red blankie and a nu-nu. He was also better dressed. Ha! Let this be a warning to all other Archers out there. There's only room for one in the H-Wood, playas.


Trying to do it All, Ten Things at a Time

A Perfect Post

I'm going to have to take things down a notch. Brace yourselves. I'm going to get serious and angsty and probably cry and scream and kick and remove my glasses to clean them five times and drink a beer and pour the beer in the sink in exchange for wine. I will likely smoke a cigarette or four and tear at my face and writhe. Sometimes I writhe.

The problem is that it's very hard to blog when there is little to say, when one's heart is full of bubbles and brain is full of burps. It's difficult to find the words when every day they seem farther away. When hope leads to waiting and waiting to more waiting and finally news. Bad news. Good news. More waiting. Waiting and trying not to wait.

If I were to describe myself to a stranger I would use this image: Three computers going at once and a baby in my lap. Three computers going at once and a teething, "I want to go outside, mama" baby in my lap.

How can I do it all? What if there are days I can't go outside. Days when I have a deadline and the children need me and the house is a mess and the dogs have fleas and there are friends in need and the phone keeps ringing and there are blogs to post so my readers don't disappear, so I don't become obsolete again, sucked into motherhood and responsibility and writing for a paycheck instead of a dream.

I started a new novel as soon as I finished my last. "How's it going?" Very slowly. When there is time and there is never time except of course 3am when I am sleeping and the world isn't quiet and my dreams return to remind me to keep going. Never give up. Even after three rejection letters there is hope. There has to be.

Advice to friends. Advice to fellow mothers in the same boat. "How do you do it all?" Crack a joke. Make it seem easy. Make everything seem easy. Make life seem easy and parenthood and marriage and freelancing for pennies, writing a novel and smiling after a rejection, keeping the faith after two, reminding oneself that four years of work counted for a lot, counted for everything. Make the bed. Make it nice. Make the people laugh when you sit down to write and if you can't make them laugh make them cry. Make them want to hug you or hold you or punch you in the face. Make them want to kill you or fuck you or be your friend. Make them change. Make them happy. Make the baby smile. Make him laugh. Make him dinner. Make him proud.

Hold the phone, someone is on the other line. She says its important. People are dying. Children. Friends. Press mute because there is nothing you can say. Press off because you're running out of minutes. Running out of time. Soon he'll be grown up and you'll regret the time you spent pushing him away for one more paragraph in the manuscript no one will ever read. Put down the book, the computer, the ideas. Remember who you are now. Wait. Remember who you were. Wait. Remember what's important. Make a list. Ten things, no twenty. Twenty thousand things you want to do before you die but what if tomorrow never comes? No one will remember. No one will know. No one will laugh or cry or make the bed. No one will have a clue which songs to sing to the baby. No one will be there for the children. No one will finish the first draft of the novel. No one will publish the one that's been finished for months. No one will remember the thought you had last night, that great idea you forgot to write down.

Who am I to feel overwhelmed when Atlas is out there, floating in space with the weight of the world on his shoulders? His legs crooked and veiny like branches, his feet sinking deeper into nothing. What am I doing with pencils in my ears and ideas in my head and pacifiers in my shoes? There is throw-up in my hair and perfume. How can I be everything? How is it possible? Does anyone know? You? Do you?

I'm making lists. One by one I'm checking stuff off, but on no list is there a reminder to slow down. Calm down. Put the computer away and the red pen and the broom and the dog leashes and the phone and get thee to a Nunnery or at the very least outside.

Thus far the mighty mystery of motherhood is this: How is it that doing it all feels like nothing is ever getting done.

I'm hoping the answers will come with time, or at least a little scotch. Or air. Or something.


Pants-ing Ain't What it Used to Be

Remember Middle School? Gym class? Drawstring pants AND they're at your ankles. Hahahaha! Nice Sheera panties! Nah-nah! (They were Josie and the Pussycats, okay?)

Ah yes, those were the days but it's been a while since I thought of them. In fact it wasn't till today when Archer sweetly pants-ed a three year-old girl down the street.

I accidentally laughed because as if Archer knows what the hell he's doing but apparently laughing was a bad idea. Bad. Very bad. The little girl screamed for her Dad as Archer crawled away babbling and gabbling and googling.

I turned toward the scene apologetically. "Sorry! My son's got the dickens!"

"What you say? Dick?"

"Noooooo, silly! He has the dickENS. Like Charles Dickens?"

"Dick what?"

"No. Argh. Um...Habla Ingles?"

Little girl's dad promptly pulled his daughter's pants up and I backed-away slowly, following Archer to safety across the sidewalk.

Maybe it's just me but who seriously gets upset when a toddler pulls down a child's pants. He's a ONE-YEAR-OLD.

Please save the sexual harassment suit for when he's at LEAST in kindergarten. Sheesh.


Girls Gone Child Loves Shoes, Betch.

Before there was GGC, there was PTSF. No shoes, no service , which is why the following video has been emailed to me, texted, faxed, IM'ed, forwarded and slapped on my Myspace page and It's too damn good to keep to myself.

These shoes are $300. Let's GET THEM!


*A Pointy-toed thanks to Dana and Niels.


Archer in Drag*

The below pic was taken a loooooong time ago but STILL.** There are no words:


He is going to kill me someday for this.
** He is going to kill me and then kill me again after I'm dead.

GGC's "Top Six" Unresolved Searches

Unfortunately for those who GOOGLE searched for the following phrases listed below, you did not find what you were looking for. Sadly, you settled for (This) Girl's Gone Child: The Blog, and scanned the archives searching for answers you will most likely never find. Your own personal missing link, a key to one undiscovered voyage, a life's expedition turned sour with question marks and ellipsis... A dream shattered with no explanation and more ellipsis... ...

Today I have chosen six unresoved searches to discuss and/or research for the oddballs out there who so kindly and anonymously asked...

...For the brave souls who searched the web with cracked binoculars this is for you:

Search #1. Exciting Handshakes for girls

The following are my all-time top three favorite and most exciting handshakes (for girls.)

1. Girl #1: "Hiya. I'm from the Itty-Bitty-Titty-committee"... (grabs boob with left hand and shakes Girl #2's hand with right.)
Girl #2
: "Nice to meet a fellow member!" (grabs own boob AND friend's boob a la bonding experience.)

2. Girl #1: "Hiya. I'm from the... (shakes Girl#2's hand and tugs at Girl #2's pinky finger as if to milk it) ...Alta Dena Milking service!!!!"

3. Girl #2: "Hey there. How's it hanging!" (shaking hand like normal) "I'm Girl #2 and I'm from... (pulls hand over right shoulder and rests chin firmly on Girl #1's elbow) ...the American Rifle Association!

I hope you find these as exciting as I do. Go on and enjoy.

Search #2: How to talk sweet nothings to Latin woman

I am not myself a Latin woman, so in all fairness I called up Uncle Frank who's close enough. His response? "Feed her while you're talking. The nothings will sound sweeter."

Search #3: I made the stranger suck my boobs

Actually this search brought it's searcher to exactly the right place. Making strangers suck my boobs is something I have been doing for several glorious years.

Search #4: Pictures of uncensored girls vaginas

I have been searching all day and have not been able to find any uncensored vaginas. They have all been censored, unfortunately. Perhaps next time you might want to use a word a little less scientific like, oh, I dunno, Va-goo-goo? Polly Pocket?

Search #5: If I can teach you one thing it's that snails can't crawl backwards

I in fact did not know this and am thrilled at this fact. Enlightened and thrilled. I didn't even know snails could crawl! My life = officially complete.

Search #6. Is there a practice video game which I can play on how to learn on how to change a baby's diaper?

This is by far my favorite question. Great Scott, you're a genius! I'm on the phone with EA Games right now. I'm going to pitch the hell out of that shit. I mean, are you serious? How brill! I would totally play a diaper-changing video game AND I'd enjoy it. A million dollar idea and because you are an anonymous search-er, I am not sharing a dime. Tough luck, ex-lax.


My Mommy Went to the Beach (with me) And All I Got was This Lousy Sister

I must carry an attract-a-child pheromone or something because as of late wherever I go I end up with someone else's kid on accident. They follow me out of farmers markets, through bookstore isles and across supermarkets. They find me schlepping ten bags of who-the-hell-knows-what on the beach, take my hand and say hello.

Yesterday, this happened once again. At the beach, Archer in hand, two large bags swinging from my sides.

A little blonde girl in a flowered swimsuit wandered in front of us. "Excuse me," she said.

"Why hello there."


"Where are you going?"

"Where are YOU going."

"That way," I pointed. "Toward the bluff."

"Oh. Can I come?"

"Where's your Mommy?"

"Over there." The girl pointed every which way and I nodded and looked around.

"Um. Maybe we should find your Mommy...?"

Just then, out of nowhere, Supermom appeared in her American Flag one-piece, waving at us.

"Is this your daughter?" She asked.

"Nope." (She just wishes. JK)

"I see. Well, I've been watching her and I think it's safe to say she is lost."

"Yeah. She's lost. It is safe to say."

"This is the third child I have had to bring to the lifeguard tower TODAY!" The Supermom shook her head. In the background, her children were running amok, burying each other alive. I focused on her obvious choice of a bathingsuit and tried not to laugh and or/burn her.

Supermom started pulling at the little girl's arm. "Come on, hon. We're going to the lifeguard tower!" But the little girl wouldn't budge. She just held on tighter to my arm, closed her eyes and screamed.

I imagine it all looked a little strange. Me holding Archer in one arm, being pulled by the little girl being pulled by Supermom.

"Why don't I take her to the Lifeguard Station?"

"Do you know where it is?"

"Um. Yeah. I do."

"I'll come with you."

At this point the little girl was crying, Archer was crying, my bags were falling off me, towels were dragging and I was going blind from overexposure to the American Flag.

Several steps later, five or so little blonde girls in the same swimsuit as my new friend came dashing toward us with outstretched arms. OH. MY. GOD. There were more. MORE. Luckily the little girls were coming to take their sister away, not to join her by my side. Not that it would have been a bad thing. I just don't know if the huz would have been amused by our newly-extended family of hibiscus-clad blondes.

And so the little girl waved goodbye and Supermom dissapeared in a cloud of red, white and blue smoke and Archer and I continued on our merry way. The two of us. Just the two of us.*


Until today of course when we will be returning to the beach and I will be swimming with fourth graders hanging off my ankles.

Why I Hate the Suburbs: Episode One

Today, ready for a long day of poolside activity I drove on over to the local Rite Aid to pick up some Swimmer diapers for Arch. I pulled into the parking lot and waved to the man with the great big bag of charcoal to go ahead and cross the street in front of me.

"Go ahead," I said sweetly, humming along to the ster-e-er-e-o.

At first I thought he was waving back as if to say, "thanks" but then he squinted and glared and lifted his arms above his head as if to threaten me. "What the hell is your problem, bitch? Jesus Christ!"

"What?" Um. Are you..."

"We don't need your permission to cross the fucking street, dumb bitch."

"Um... I..."

"Come on kids, get in the car."

That's right. He was a FAAAATHER. He had KIIIIIDS. The children didn't even flinch at his outburst and I was so caught off guard I accidentally bought Archer the Little Mermaid, pink swimmer diapers instead of the blue "for boys" Nemos. He will be spending the week exploring his feminine side (sorry, little dude) and it's all the lifted-Suburban driving, red-mustache rocking, flip-flop Tommy Bahama wearing, Budweiser The King of Beers drinking, asshole in the parking lot with the W sticker on his rear and the softball-coach waddle. Growing up these men were everywhere. Perving on us at Ice Cream socials and pizza joints, drunk at the beach littering their idiocy all over the place, blasting Rush Limbaugh on their way to Wal-Mart.

Our L.A. crazies are far crazier than, well, everyone, but at least they're well-dressed and/or homeless without their dozen kids following them around in the streets. That's just aint cool, dude.

Unfortunately I was not born to be confrontational. I was born to smile and nod and flash a thumbs-up like a proper tourist and then talk shit on my blog, thank you very much.