GGC Recommends: The Stretchy, Vibrating Caterpillar Thing

It was a baby shower gift for Archer, although I have to say, for a minute I thought it was for me. Ahem. I believe his is a Carters Caterpillar but I see them around. It works like this: you attach it to something, pull it (to make it longer) and it vibrates back to its original size. Ahem, ahem, ahem.I was a bit apprehensive at first. Albeit pretty darn cute, it's, well... Kind of "adult" in size, shape, action. As long as the kid loves it and it helps him nap during the day I got nothing but love for Mr. Stretchvibracaterpillar thing and totally recommend him to GGC readers.


MeMe and HeHe

Anyone who has been down wid da blogging community knows a thing or two about the MeMe. If you are a parent of mine, or another relative/ someone who reads this blog and you do not familiar with the term, see below...

MeMe: (n) questionnaire where one divulges information about ones character (it's all about meme!) and then "tags" several other blogger-friends to also answer the same questions and so on, until one MeMe has been exhausted and another surfaces...

I will not pretend to hate on the MeMe. I love talking about myself and revealing all aspects of my life to pseudo-strangers or else I would not blog. Let's just say my secrets have never been safe with me.

SOOOO, as I am ALWAYS late with EVERYTHING, I am finally going to MeMe it up c/o the charming and delightful, Mrs. Salad Days who tagged me last week with the "10 Weird and Random Facts About Myself" MeMe. The time has come, by George!

I started this blog so I had a place to write about Momzing because my OG website, the PTSF wasn't really the place. Plus, I was in an ambitious mood and thought I could pull off writing two blogs (not so much).I promised myself that GGC would be all about Me and Archer because I am GGC and GG doesn't have the same ring to it (or make sense). So from now on, all MeMe's are going to be HeHe's as well. I am also inviting my fellow blog momz and popzez to participate. (Not to worry, parents with daughters: viola! The sheshe!)

MeMe: 10 Weird and Random Facts

1. I spent my college tuition money traveling and supporting my kept-man habit
2. A man once cornered me in an alley in Paris and asked me to kill him. He even gave me the weapon do so. It was the strangest thing that ever happened to me.
3. I work four days a week hosting an online chatroom for sick kids and have done so for more than two years.
4. I go on snail-rescuing missions after it rains.
5. I like to listen in on people's conversations and copy them verbatim into a notebook. (I once did this on the Subway in NY for 8 hours straight.)
6. I was the mutha-fuckin Homecoming Queen. Hollah!
7. I have an extreme-innie belly-button. You have no idea.
8. I was the last person seated in the St. Paul's Cathedral 9/11 Memorial Service, when living in London in 2001. I was seated seven rows behind the Queen. It was the first time in history that the American National Anthem was played before the British Anthem in the UK. It was an unbelievable moment in my life.
9. Frank Lloyd Wright is a relative.
10. I do not watch horror movies and have not since I saw Pet Cemetery at age 9. I still have nightmares.

HeHe: 10 Weird And Random Facts About Archer

1. He will eat everything but cottage cheese.
2. He was named partially after the following quote in Gibran's The Prophet: "The Archer sees the mark on the path of the infinite and he bends you with his might that his arrows may go swift and far."
3. He answers to "little fish" and "bugsy" but not to his real name.
4. The dogs are his two best friends.
5. He is very shy and cries whenever strange people say hello, unless they have cleavage.
6. He sleeps from 7pm-7am like clockwork and seldom naps during the day.
7. His favorite song is "Tiny Dancer"
8. He has never played with another baby before.
9. He is the youngest political activist EVER and lead an anti-war rally on Hollywood Blvd last week.
10. He can burp louder than I can.

And now I would like to tag my new friends: Prolly, Motherhood Uncensored, & Cynical Dad.


You Know You are a GGC...

...When you dress your child better than you dress yourself.


That Shirt Is The Poop!

So Archer has been pooping a lot lately. (God, Listen to me. What has it come to?) Already he pooped 17 times today. I am not lying or embellishing either. I miss the days of bi-weekly pooping at the beginning, when Archer was a small blob of a human, or as his Uncle Russell called him, a "tweedle-heench". Diapers were a quarter slice of heaven back in those days but I will stop now before I get too nostalgic about poop. Back to the present day. Today. By the time 12:30 in the nooner was upon us, I had already dealt with a plethora of poop (not to mention the dogs, who seem to shit for a hobby these days.)

I had some errands to run so I strapped Archer in his stroller, grabbed a sweatshirt and we were out the door. After a brief bookstore browse, post-office stop, and Starbucks soy latte run we decided to slip into Flicka on our way home. Flicka is a fancy shmancy baby-boutique and favorite of local celeb GGC's and our favorite place to purchase overpriced-yuppy-baby-hats. I am crazy about the baby hats if you have not noticed.

I had not known, however, that today was "I'm not a witch, but I play one on TV" day and realized rather quickly that the store was full of celebrity on-screen witches. Witches shopping for baby clothes, me and Archer.

When I see celebs around town I am pretty good with the ol' " I'm not looking" look. It's basically a peripheral stare and only works when wearing sunglasses (which is why all L.A. people wear sunglasses inside, outside, etc. I mean, you never know, right?)

We did a few laps in the store, strutting like were the shit, rock in roll, totally. We spied through the wall of the sale-rack, curious as to what they were buying. Rose who is quite thin was trying on a 2T tutu with little difficulty. Totally witch-chic, really. The older witches were for SURE buying gifts for Clarissa Explains it All/Sabrina's new babe and that was all I got.

Archer usually gets attention everywhere we go so I was surprised at how unfriendly everyone was to us. Witches aside, the mail-guy was totally quiet. And THEN... The answer: Poop, there it is!

That's right. The white t-shirt hanging out from beneath my green sweatshirt was covered in hard/crusty poop. My first GGC (CBH) post was about being caked in spit-up, being totally clueless and then trying to maintain my cool, once I realized (was told) that my baby "soiled" my threads. Today it took me coming home and looking in the mirror to see what kind of condition I was in.

Even worse, (two hours later) and I haven't changed my clothes yet.

I guess there comes a point when shit stops being embarrassing. When dealing with poop is a more common occurrence than eating, drinking, breathing, it's kind of like, "whatever." Plus, it humbles a sister. I may not be the shit anymore but I am sooooo totally poop. Dig that, witches.


And In other more impressive news, my neighbor, friend and brand new Mom, KiwiDebra has started a blog. Read her here. She's funny, clever and her baby is friggin precious.

Friends With Benefits: A GGC Love Letter to Momz

Dear GGC Reader/Fellow Mom-Blogger/Friend,

I have been thinking a lot about you, all of you... Those of you who come here, comment here, have sites of your own that I frequent, new friends, and I want to say thank you for the joie de vivre dot com you have brought to my life since I started GGC (formerly CBH2.)

It was always hard for me to keep a group of solid girlfriends and since highschool, only a handful of women have made it past the "party-friend" relationship. Most lady-people I know do not know me and vice versa. I was always friends with boys/men. My roommates were always dudes. Gay, straight, drunks, losers, exes, etc. I always felt more comfortable with men as my confidants, pals, BFFs. Guys were always less drama, they seemed happy to spill their guts, secrets, stories. I trusted men. There was never games,competition, backstabbing. In fact, all of the women I have befriended in my seven years living in Los Angeles I met through men.

I have always sort of resented women. The catty and the fake. The so-called feminist who in my opinion wasn't too different from the woman she was always at war with i.e.: "Don't look at my tits, you sexist bastard, even if I choose to wear a low-cut va-voom halter top with a push-up bra." The shit-talker. The cock-tease. The bitch. Somehow I gave in to the idea that women were monsters, perhaps because I was myself, insecure? Or maybe because I assumed most women were cruel to one another. Regardless, I never quite respected women, myself included, until I got pregnant and got to experience firsthand what it truly meant to be a woman, biologically woman.

It was pretty lonely going through pregnancy with no pregnant/mom friends and I turned to sites like babycenter for advice and kept mainly to myself. My dude friends pretty much fell out of my life, except for Uncle Frank, of course. I can't blame them really. Getting knocked up and pregnant is like kryptonite for a gal's guy-friendships.

Suddenly I found myself desperate for women. I wanted to talk about girl-stuff. Vaginas and boobs and maternity wear. I wanted to giggle with a gaggle of gal-pals. I wanted to French braid someone's hair and then do a switcheroo. I wanted to get my nails did.

I did quite a bit of soul-searching those nine long months. I made an effort to be more friendly with women of all ages and found to my surprise that I was shy, intimidated, afraid to take the relationship further than a brief chat.

Since Archer's birth I have mentioned my want/need for Mom friends but it isn't because I want to talk about poop and whether Bugaboo strollers are overrated... I really want to start over. I want to have relationships with women, honest relationships, good-old fashioned girl-talk and gossip and secret sharing.

Since starting this blog, I feel like I have fulfilled my need to surround myself with like-minded women. I feel close to many of you. I read what you write and nod my head. You have reached out to me and I am grateful. Truly. It means more to me than I can describe. You are more than "bloggy friends" I read. You are people that I want to know. You're like friends with benefits. Women with ideas and advice, warmth and some serious motherly lovin.

So this post is really a (lame attempt at a) thank you to all of you who have restored my love and respect for women and my pride in being one. You truly are mother-figures not only to your children but to your peers, specifically me. If I could kiss you, I would... But alas, the distance... So if you could just kiss yourself for me. Like that. Perfect.



Seeing Double

Weirdgirl has a list going on: Things They Don't Tell You in Lamaze. I have one more to add to the list: failed eyesight. It started with pregnancy and has gotten significantly worse. And now I am practically blind.

Exhibit A:
Me: "Husband! Right there! It's Ali G in the House: The Holiday Special!"
Husband : (backtracking channels) "Um. You mean Mohammed Ali: A Retrospective?"
Me: "Oh. Really? It looks like..."

Exhibit B:
Me: "Wow! Close Football game! 14 to 16... Very close."
Husband: "Actually, its 6 to 34."
Me: "Really? (squinting) It looks like..."

Exhibit C:
(blowing up MS draft to 24pt so I can read it without eyes watering)
Husband: "I can read what you are writing from across the room. Are you ok?"
Me: "Just making things easier, my friend."

Exhibit D:
Me: "I just accidentally plucked my entire right eyebrow right off my face."
Husband: "I think you need to go in for an eye exam."

So last week I made an appointment with the local Optometrist and walked my ass over, Archer in tow. We sat down together in the eye-exam-chair-from-hell and got my eyes examined. The optometrist ripped me a prescription for a pair of glasses and Archer and I picked out a pair of dork-chic Prada frames to complete my new set of eyes.

I cannot complain. I have always secretly wanted to wear glasses. I think they are damn sexy on men and gals alike and now I can join the bookish/silverlake hipster/intellectual elite. Another interesting thing about getting glasses is that my IQ has risen at least 17 points.

The moral here is that I guess some post-pardum changes aren't so bad. To hell with 20/20 vision, anyway. Soooooo overrated.I embrace my dork-chic and am now off to complete my new look with a couple pairs of Varvatos shoelaceless Chuck Tailors and some intense three hour line-waiting with Archer in front of the Troubadour.


No Score and Eight Months ago...

You were born...

Now someone please explain to me how you went from this:

...To this:

I have been sitting here trying to figure it out.


Sippy Cups are for Babies

The Sippy Cup is not our friend, in fact, we friggin hate him. HATE. We throw him. We elbow him. We karate chop him in the sipper. We bite him and spit at him. We will not ON OUR LIFE DRINK OUT OF HIM. Screw the middleman. WTF is wean? We're all about the glass. Drinking out of the glass is for men and we are MANLY.

Pass the glass, Momz



Why Crawl When You Can Scream Bloody Murder and then Get Kisses?

I am trying my damnedest to get Archer interested in the prospect of crawling. He is more of a vocal guy than a mobile man and refuses to do anything when I put him on his belly, beside, scream. Scream and cry and look at me with this "how could you, you evil hag" face and then I surrender, pick his ass up and hug him for twenty minutes for having such a cute lower lip when he cries.

Pre-baby, I was under the assumption that babies crawl at 6 months-ish. I remember last Christmas saying, "Awwww, this time next year we will have a crawling baby!" Um... Not even close.

My Mom calls every day and ALWAYS asks if Archer is crawling.

"So... Is he on the move, yet?"
"No, Mom. He is not crawling yet."
"Hmmmmm. Oh."

She did the same thing before he learned how to roll over, late according to Dr. Sears and Spock and the chick that wrote "What to Expect..."

But now I am starting to think I am doing something very wrong. Today I put him on his tummy in the middle of the living room and let him scream for five minutes, rooting him on all the while.

"Come on, Bugsy! You can do it."
"That's the spirit!"

The dogs whimpered and gave me this "you bitch" look for not doing anything about the squirming baby in the mound of pillows. Finally,I picked him up and kissed him until he was all smiles again and then I sat him down with his baby piano and wrote this post.

And Mom, If you are reading this, he still isn't crawling.



What the Hell is Wrong with Me?

I want another baby human. I know it's totally insane. INSANE. We only recently moved into a fabulous two-bedroom in an even more fabulous neighborhood, meanwhile Archer isn't even 8 months old!!! Not only that, I FINALLY got my body back, totally milfing it up over here. Things are great. Work and life and there is time to get everything done and still catch up on LOST... And all I can think about is socking Archer a sib. Dude. Somebody elbow me in the face and then titty twister me NOW.

A couple weeks ago, BMC was talking about all of the reasons she be like "hell no" to having another kid right now and I was totally, like, "amen sister" but the fact of the matter is, I want at least 18 chillins running around ye old barnyard. Little rascals style.

Okay, maybe not THAT many, but I do want more than one. Too many only-child-syndrome-people I know and that will NOT be happening here. No way, Joe. I wouldn't even allow my dog to be an only child.

And then I start thinking, "Duh!!!!" Of course I want another! How could I not? It's like kicking ass at craps and then walking away from the table. Who does that? Not me. I do not stop while I am ahead, after all, I was born in the 80's. I'm a child of excess.

And even though I do not look forward to going through all of this or this again, I still get excited, gitty and eager to work the preggo-look on the blvd again. And to bring Archer a buddy? Could it get any better? I see my neighbor with her beautiful baby girl and I get all gooey and emotional thinking about how wonderful it is, the newness of it all.

Then I remember that it's all biological. My body is supposed to be telling me this. It's also possible that all of this crazy-thinking has something to do with the fact that yesterday afternoon one of my oldest, bestestest friends birthed a shiny new babe. (Congratulations, K!)

I am hoping, though, that the clock stops for the time being and all these crazy feelings resurface sometime 'round 2008.


GGC Recommends: Sharper Image Catalogs

Think Sharper Image is merely a catalog boasting overpriced junk that no one needs? So do I. But instead of flipping to page three to roll your eyes at the electronic nose trimmer slash toothbrush slash "massager" with strobe effects, how about handing the ol' catalog over to your young'n. He/she will thank you and pretty soon- hours of fine shredding fun, giving you the must needed time to brush up on your latin and/or get some reading done of your own!

Other unwanted catalogs including Lands End, Lillian Vernon and/or Sears can be substituted as well.



Delayed Posting of Holiday Pictures. (Really Delayed.)

Buenos Dias. We are feeling better today, thank you all for your words of advice. Without YOU, GGC readers, I would be off in a corner somewhere, pockets overflowing with Kleenex, crying and alone reading Dr. Sears books. I really don't like Dr. Sears books so again, thank you all very much.

It has taken me and my lazy ass until now to clear my camera of holiday photos and since I haven't posted a gratuitous photo spread in a while, I thought, what the hell... Presenting, photos of the fam, by the fam, for the fam.

A Holiday in CALIFORNIA, Where the people dress in plaid:


It's Just Snot Happening

Archer is sick and now I am sick so it is not a happy campsite today. Archer refuses the aspirator like I'm trying to suck his brains out through his nostrils and every time I try to do a sneak suck, he flips out, screams, punches me in the face, drop kicks me and then throws the damn thing out the window.

Does anyone, for the love of God have any advice? This is our first bad cold so I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I just want the snot out of his nose with as little a production as possible. Am I kidding myself? Is this doable? Is the aspirator just another gadget to make a GGC go wild? (And not in the tit-flashing, girl-on-girl shower action, "CABO SAN LUCAS SPRING BREAK RULES!" way.)

Please. Help. Me.



GGC Contemplates the Original Name Movement

Ever since 4th grade I have been compiling a list of "baby names." It was a fun lunchtime activity, a great WILDCARD journal entry before bed when I had nothing else to write about and STILL even after having a child I work on my "list" frequently. I am writing this post because I have a feeling that I'm not alone, that most of you have done/still do the same thing.

How I know? I know many of your baby/kid's names and they are not "Chris and Sarah." And if they are, Sarah is probably the boys name and Chris, the girls. It's cool. Trust me, I'm into the whole boy-name-for-girls thing. If Archer was a girl his name was going to be "Doug." I digress. When I first found out I was pregnant, even before I made the teary journey down Melrose to break the news to my boyfriend, I had a list about nineteen pages long of baby names. Archer was not on that list. Neither was Sage. But that is neither here nor there. The point is that original names seem to be not only extremely common but pretty much a prerequisite for parents giving birth today.

Growing up in my town every boy's name was Chris, Mike or Jason. I dated five Chris' and about 657 Jasons. Every other girl was a Kelly, Sarah or Nicole so if you ever had a "female emergency" in the girl's bathroom you could pretty much shout any of the above girl's names and within seconds a tampon would roll into your stall. No one went by first names because it was so confusing so everyone started going by last names. (Smith and Cooper and Richards) And although I was one of only two Rebeccas at high school, the other Rebecca had the exact same schedule as me pretty much all four years. I hated her. She was always bare-foot and she talked really loud and said nothing. To break off all association, I went by Becca.

When I presented my list of baby names to the ol' man he rejected every single one them.

"What? You don't like Paper? I think it's a cute name for a girl!"
"Are you carrying an extra chromosome, woman?"

Right,well HE was more interested in names like:

Axyl Monkeywrench
Captain Freightrain
Cougar Whistleblower
Power Toolbelt
Awesome (no middle name needed)

Archer Sage was the ONLY somewhat-original name not on both our lists that we agreed on and to this day we are very happy.

I am convinced that the reason everyone is naming their children fantastic, interesting names is because, well, our parents just weren't very original. We are rebelling, parent friends!!! Fuck yeah.

...Now, if you will excuse me I have some bad-ass baby-name lists to attend to and it's okay, you can get back to your lists as well. Ready? Break!


Write On: A GGC Memo

I have been working on The Envelope for three tedious years, trying to create something as close to perfect as possible. "Novels are never finished, they are only abandoned" and as we* close in on these last few chapter revisions, this fact seems all the more apparent.

Past relationships have suffered because of this. My first priority was to write and become a better writer, to study the masters' works and sell what I could. I had secretly convinced myself that my soul mate was a dead man with a Brooklyn accent and I surrounded myself with his books, original portraits, and collected first editions, whatever the cost. I knew that I had talent, I had the fire and I was willing to do whatever it took to watch the mother-fucker burn.

Writing is an escape, a journey some say. But writing a novel is like uprooting and moving out of state. During the years when I was hanging by a thread, the work I did on my computer kept me from losing my mind.

One of my biggest fears about becoming a mom was that I would lose my identity. Perhaps identity is the wrong word. I was afraid that I would be distracted, that my priorities would change and I would have to give up the single most important thing in my life. Some of the most well-known female writers refused to have children and maybe they were right? I was afraid that I would become less passionate, that I would wake up a housewife, clad in bonnet and apron. Barefoot in the kitchen and like every horrific motherhood-cliche. I had always been a writer if not socially or professionally, personally. What I wrote defined me. The characters I created mirrored my truths and lies, my lusts and fears. Much of the joy in my life stemmed from perfect moments with my laptop or notebook, long drives with my dictaphone. When Inspiration struck I was left ecstatic, sometimes for weeks. Working through the night to meet a self-imposed deadline was gratifying, I looked forward to all-nighters, a pot of fresh coffee and a carton of cigarettes in the freezer.

Last night I journeyed to my old watering hole, er, hot spring. I have been frequenting the place for seven years since being introduced by a very talented man who generously befriended me, supported me and told me to "get the hell out of dodge**" asap. Insomnia is like a safety, an office for people who work from home and need a change of scenery. Over the years I have met all kinds of interesting people, passing through the place, appearing in chapters disguised as characters, taking up permanent residence, fading away. Last night was the first time in well over a year that I found myself alone, working. It felt good. I enjoyed my work time and being able to focus without distraction. It is difficult to find the time in the day to write. I used to spend hours and now, minutes here and there. Archer doesn't nap yet so I type with him in my lap, mostly one-handed. Now The Envelope is almost finished and I'm trying my best to haul ass to the finish line. I'm tired. I want to work on something new. Still, I can't help but look back at all that has happened over the years while working on the MS. All of the changes that have taken place in my life and the lives of my characters. My story and theirs, on quite different paths than we set off on.

I came home to my family: my little boy, wide-awake and kicking his little legs, big-eyed and excited to see me and it felt amazing. From one world to another and I was happy to be home.

Finishing a book is a lot like birthing a child, except a child comes out of the body and creates his own story and a finished manuscript will never live up to the high standards of the author. (Unless you are James Joyce.)

I am starting to believe that the life we lead is our greatest masterpiece.

No matter what happens with the book, whether it sells or fails. Whether the next MS sells or fails. Whether anything I ever write again sells or fails, I have in my short 24 years of life created something perfect. Something so extraordinarily pristine that inspiration strikes daily. The kind of inspiration that happens during normal business hours, influenced by the miracle of a life, a soft-skinned, smiley-faced, tangible life. No more cartons of cigarettes in the freezer. No more all-night coffee/red wine binges. And that's okay. Not ALL writers have to struggle or suffer or starve. Not all writers have to live up the romantic stereotypes of chain-smoking at their desk in the rain. No more trying to categorize myself. I can be everything, a writer, a mother, a wife. It is possible to do it all, to have it all. It's even okay to want more.

Life is long...


*My charming editor, Sal and I.
**L to the A

What is That Thing on Your Chest?

It happens from time to time... I run into old acquaintances, ex party friends, former "dates" while out on the town with Arch. It usually goes something like this:

"Rebecca, hey! How have you been?"
"Great, thanks. Busy. Ah.... life, you know."
"Yeah. It's been a while huh? You look... different.(staring at my chest)"
"Oh yeah, I had a baby. ,(looking down at my chest and the baby, attached to it a la 'bjorn) This is Archer."
"What? Shit, that's so crazy. Anyway. I gotta go. See ya."

Most recently, while strolling down Larchmont, I ran into an acquaintance and the conversation went something like this:

"Katie,* is that you?"
"Oh My God, Rebecca? Holy shit!"
"I heard you had a kid, man, but I didn't believe it."
"Yeah. This is little man."
"Are you still really young? Last time I saw you, you were, like, ten."
"I'm not exactly ten. And I feel like I saw you last year, no?"
"Whatever. It's just weird seeing you with a kid. Trip. Well, evs. I'm in a hurry and I don't want to get your baby all smoky."

I'm one of those people who change friends like outfits not because I am fair-weathered but because most people make me crazy. The kind of people one befriends in Hollywood are usually people who can "get them" something, whatever that is. Being married with a child leaves me little time to get anyone anything, and unless I sell a manuscript, and regain some control over what small successes may prevail, I can't see that changing.

In the meantime, it's kind of fun: the shock and awe approach to almost-forgotten faces and (don't remind me) experiences past.


*names have been changed

Everything's Soooo New it's Like, CRAZY!

Ah, yes, everything seems to be new in the New Year...

Some Babies Talk in L.A.

It seems to have happened recently. I'm not sure if it started yesterday or last week but I think Archer is talking. I was unsure at first, convinced that crying "mama" was just a joke but now I'm beginning to think otherwise. Yesterday he started with the "dadada's" in the morning when his dad fetched him from his caged bed and changed his pantaloons. This morning he said Da-gon.

I started calling the dogs "dragons" for some reason when Archer was a newborn. I was make-believing for him, thinking of the boy and his dragon story. It's all very twelve-sided-die of me, I know, but the name sorta stuck and now whenever the dogs come over to kiss his face, I say. "Ooooooh, Dragon kisses!!!"

So, um, I guesssss Dragon is his first word? If this is true then how VERY Trapper Keeperesque. Next stop, D&D and Power Metal.

Fetch Me Thou Grub Ye Silly Wench!

I guess it's kind of like what SUV's do to little people, monster trucks to "small" men and highchairs to babies? We finally bought Archer a (fancy) high chair and yes, I am a hypocrite. As soon as my sweet, cherubic little bugsy slid in, his inner Viking came out. He started pounding on the wood tray, screaming and smiling with pride. Smearing apple sauce on his cheeks and roaring into the afternoon. Now, he refuses to leave and prefers to finger paint with his breakfast. He has been in the chair for five days now and I can't get him out.

Give me the Sugar, Sugar

Baby tries ice cream. Baby screams for more ice cream. No more ice cream. Baby screams some more. What have I done?

The Girl Next Door

I am pleased to announce that our neighbor is in labor as I type this which means Archer will soon have a (little) girl next door. She has a pet dragon too. She is a little young but it's about time Archer can be the older man around here. All of these older chicks be crampin his manhood.

Babies First Panic Attack: New Years Eve

We seem to have forgotten about the baby at 11:59, several glasses of wine/champagne deep, and made quite a racket at midnight at our humble household get-together..... When the natives quieted down, we heard a scream from the back of the house. Fuck, man! We have a baby. Almost forgot. Luckily, he was fine. No permanent damage done.


P.S. Wishing everyone a happy, healthy 2006, year of the Dog, er, Da-gon.