A Quiet Saturday in the Titty of Angels

Today, stopped at a crosswalk in Beverly Hills I watched in pure awe as a woman crossed Wilshire Blvd with her shirt up around her neck, breastfeeding her newborn with a cell phone to her ear. Without hesitating, she kicked open the door to Barneys and disappeared, bare-tits flapping in her eager-to-shop wind....

...See? There are talented women who live in L.A.


Dear Local People Who Think I am a Nanny,

I'm not. I have a child. Sometimes it happens to people my age, too. The baby in the stroller is indeed mine so before you bring up "The Nanny Diaries" (and no, I didn't read it) and ask if I am available to caretake your kid as well, I'm telling you to save us both the explanation-- The kid came out of my bod.

Just because I'm not speed-walking in Juicy Couture sweatsuits and my Warner Bros hat doesn't mean I'm not an L.A. parent.

I appreciate your concern and I get the fact that I am young and "when you were my age" life was so new and so many parties and "you just don't meet many girls your age with families around here." And I see that condescending look in your eye, I can sense the "weeeeeeeell then"s before you open your mouth because it's pretty much an everyday occurrence these days. It's not hard to read your faces.

I'm not going to suddenly trade in my wardrobe for a pair of Lee jeans and Reeboks. It's not my style. I'm not going to paint my nails pink and read Martha Stewart Living or watch Oprah. I'm just me with a kid. Got it? Not a nanny or a babysitter or a college student making some extra money and getting material for my screenplay. I AM A MOTHER and just because I don't look like your mother, or the mother who lives next door or the mother you see on TV in her white jeans and "baby on board" sticker, doesn't mean I don't know how to parent. Thank you kindly for your time and please go back to your Starbucks beverages.


The Momagement


The Miracle of Birth or Remembering Sex Education Class

Today someone found my blog by searching A+Child+Is+Born+Porn. At first I threw up a little bit in my mouth but then I stopped, and choking back chunks remembered (dunt-dunt-DUUUUUNT) Sex Education...

Let's do the time warp, again. The year is 1991 and I am in 5th grade. Sex Ed was about as ridiculous as the D.A.R.E to keep kids off drugs program. Contrary to the board of dumbasses whose idea D.A.R.E was, D.A.R.E. made drugs seem cool while sex-ed made sex seem like cruel and unusual punishment. (Bravo, board. You were successful for a good year or so.)

"Cool kids will pressure you to smoke cigarettes and try heroin." This was a direct quote from the D.A.R.E program and I remember it well because we had to repeat the fucker several times a week, out loud, to ourselves, and our pen-pals AND our poor teacher who was probably getting stoned in the back just to spite the system.

It took a few years before I realized that although cigarettes were a drug. Heroin was far worse for you, but then according to officer Shultz and his mustache and Oakleys, "a drug was a drug." I remember one lesson particularly because we had to write a page about how we would handle the "increasingly common" situation of a strange man putting a gun to our heads and saying, "smoke this joint or I'll kill you!" I was scared shitless that this was something that actually happened until I started smoking weed a few years later and realized that it's kind of the other way around.

I digress... This is about sex, not drugs.

I was a fairly sheltered kid and clueless about sex. I knew that "it" happened but never spent much time figuring out when and how. I was shy, a late-bloomer whose role model was a flat-chested doll that smelled of strawberries. I had a friend a couple years older who had already endured Sex Ed and liked to brag about it to me and my friends, quizzing us and getting blank stares in return.

"Rebecca? Do you know what a condom is?"
"Um, yeah. Who doesn't? Psh."
"Oh reaaaaaallly. Draw me a picture, then."

I searched the archives of my brain for clues before remembering the scene in Naked Gun 2 where Leslie Nielson and Priscilla Presley dress like plastic gloves and make-out. Yes, I distinctively remember them using the words "protection" and "condoms" so I drew something that looked like this:

I believe her exact words were: "What the fuck?"

I wish I could have answered her but "fuck" was a relatively new word to me and once again I found myself staring blankly as the bitch rolled her eyes and scribbled over my drawing. She then drew a circle. "A condom looks like this, okay? Get it straight."

"I knew that. I was just making sure YOU Knew that. Heh"

When I entered 5th grade, every day was a risk. It was inevitable, sex education, condoms and everything else. I was petrified and curious and embarrassed so when it was finally announced that we would be having Sex Ed the following day at school, I felt relieved. The suspense was making me sick after all and I could pass my soon-to-be-acquired wisdom down to a the girl who lived across the street and was two years younger then me. FINALLY.

My teacher Ms. North separated the Jimmy Z/Gotcha wearing boys from the Keds and Hypercolor clad girls, the mullets from the bangs and lead the Mikes, Chris' and Brians (every boy in my class had one of the three names) out of the class and to the room next door where they were to watch penis videos with the man-teacher so we could watch our vagina movies er, period pieces with Mrs. North.

Oh Sweet Moses! Help me, please! I was already suicidal.

Luckily for us Ms. North didn't talk much. She drew a picture of a cow and called it the "female reproductive system," asked one of the eight Amandas in the class to flick the switch and we all crowded onto the carpet to watch Mickey Mouse point out the clitoris. Ed Note: Um, where was Minnie in all of this?

I was appalled. WTF was Mickey doing with a pair of ovaries and a box of Tampax? Was it possible for Pluto to contract genital warts? And why was Donald suddenly performing a pap smear. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Scarred for life, we all huddled together like sheep and waited for it to end.

"Amanda G. Lights up, please?"


"Does anyone have any questions?"


"Good, because we have another movie to watch. It's called "A Child is Born" and it's a beautiful little film about the miracle of childbirth! Something you all have to look forward to..."


"Amanda Y. Lights down, please."

It had become Pavlovian. Lights down = high fever and acute case of asthma. I asked to be excused to the nurse but it was too late. The film had begun. I don't remember much about the movie besides an obscene amount of pubic hair, saggy-breasts and a bloody carcass. If this was what womanhood was all about, I would have to stay a child. Puberty? I would fight it with a razor. No hair here. No how. No way. And the bloody carcass? I was fine with the idea of adoption. Weren't periods violent crime enough?

Thirty years later, the film finally ended. Amanda Q flicked the light-switch on and I crawled out from under my desk to politely raise my hand.

"Does it always look like that?"

"Childbirth can be messy but it's a miracle. The miracle of life! Just like that tiny newborn, you also came into the world that very way, through the birth canal and out of your Mother's vagina."

Errrrrrrrrrrt. Check please.

It took me a few days before I could look my Mother in the eye after that. I was fasting as well and speaking only in my sleep. In my dreams Mickey Mouse was rowing a hairy canoe down the Fallopian tube singing Zipppppety doooo daaaah! Not cool. Not cool at all.

About a week later, after the rubble had settled and I was almost able to properly pronounce vowels, Ms. North explained joyfully that it was round two of Sex Education! "But today you will be learning about the boy's reproductive system and the workings of the penis!!!"

Penis was always a lot easier a word to hear/say than vagina. Penis sounded cool and Vagina sounded exactly how it looked. I could handle hearing about penis. I didn't have to deal with it, not for a few years at least.

Amanda R flicked the switch and we all took our places on the carpet. The movie started, same Mickey Mouse and gang with their pointing sticks and songs about glans and semen. Most of it seemed to be about masturbation and nocturnal emissions.

"One day you will experience a wet dream, mousekateers! Now, don't be alarmed! It's perfectly natural."

Of course when the lights flipped back (Amanda, again!?) every girl in the class had a raised hand. It seems the girls of Ms. North's fifth grade class were more interested in the workings of the penis then they were about their own genitilia. (again, in the future this would make a lot of sense.)

As for me? I was busy taking notes so I could educate the neighborhood girls to save them the humiliation and the shock of having it all thrown upon them like a death sentence.

Ah, memories. Sometimes all it takes is a pervy googler for a girl to remember.


And now for a GGC Assignment:
What was your first Sex Education like? I expect a full-blog report on my bloglines by weeks end.

Class dismissed.

Mammarazzi to the Rescue

This week I, Archer...

Tried on the sweater my Auntie Roo knitted for me... Fine craftmanship, eh?

Picked Zadie's nose. (What!? Mommy picks mine, psh)

Rocked out on drums. (When I rock, I drool and throw-up all over myself)...

Got a new hair style... (Step back, Maddox)

Called my Bitches on my Celly...

Wrecka, wrecka, wreck!


No Wonder We're Loners...

Today an adorable little girl rushed Archer in his stroller and hugged him. She then proceeded to kiss him, a kiss that lasted seconds and when she pulled away he screamed his head off:


"Sorry, baby," said the little girl before leaning in to kiss him again. But Archer kept his pimp hand strong and he held out his arms in proper block form and began flailing at her face and kicking and having a temper "oh, hell no!" tantrum. (sidenote: She was obviously a ghastly kisser, unlike the foo-ista who Archer gladly kissed back a few weeks ago.)

"Archer, dude, it's okay. Calm."

The mother picked her daughter up, "Your son isn't very friendly is he?"

"Yeah, well. I'm training him to hate women."

Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt. The record stopped. "Just kidding, I was... um, yeah. We're going to go now."

Sometimes I forget that I am the only person besides my son who thinks I'm funny.

Heh, awkward, heh.


Dear Monkey-brains,

Today you are the big 1-1. Eleven months is kind of a weird birthday. You're not a baby, not yet a toddler. You're almost single digits, but not quite. It's kinda like turning 9, or 12, except those are real birthdays but to me, every month is a huge deal. Me and your Daddy were going over where we were 11 months ago, just like we did when you were 10 months, 9 months, 8...

Me:"You were holding up the pain management chart, taking a pain assessment based on facial expressions."
Him:"And you were crossing your eyes."
Me:"You were trying to make me laugh."
Him:"And you were sobbing your eyes out."
Him:"You were pushing a head out of your va-googoo"
Me:"And you were trying not to pass out."

We were so totally clueless and probably still are but what the hell? It's good times, am I right? You can speak now, kind of. You can say Hi (Hiiieiei) and Cooper (Cookaaahh) and Mama (Mamama) and Dada (Dadoo) and you can also say Hydriodic (Hydriodic) which is impressive and you can wave! You can also give ten, but no high fives. Sooooo like you to just skip the five and go for the ten. That's why I love you, kid.

You still are not crawling, although you can get on your hands and knees and scream for five minutes without moving. We call it the scrawl (screamcrawl). You also refuse spoons and baby food and you want to pick up everything with your own hands which is very mature and grown-up of you and makes it easy for me when we leave the dogs to babysit you on Saturday nights. You like trying to pull my eyes out of my head and post-it notes are your current favorite toy.

The other day I spent the day without you and I kept checking my pockets and my purse thinking I forgot something. It was an uncomfortable feeling to have, like I lost an earring or my sunglasses fell off without my knowing, but it was because you were at home and I was running around town like a mad woman trying to get my errands done so I could rush home and eat your freaking nose. It's a cute nose and I can't help it. It's delicious.

So on this odd-unbirthday-birthday, so close to being a one-year old which I am quite unable to wrap my head around because it kind of seems impossible and I guess I'm supposed to plan a party for you or something because that is what moms do when their kid turns one which is silly because you don't even like people right now but maybe we'll go to the aquarium or the Chinese restaurant with the fish tanks full of puffy-eyed goldfish because you like fish and because I can see your smiling reflection in the glass.

And, and and... Happy eleven-months, little monkey. Love you infinity x infinityplex.



Confessions of a Passed-Out-At-The-Dinner-Table- After-Seriously-One-Glass-Of-Wine(ist)

It has been a week of confessions. Psh, don't look at me, look at Jesus. He hath risen or whatever and he's taking me up with him. Seriously, you want the truth? I'm changing my tune and spilling it all.

Coming back to Jesus, (who was hospitable enough to get his homie's drunk with some water-turned-wine) last night I had an eye-opening, er, eye-closing experience with drinking. Simply put, I suck at it. I used to be able to drink a bottle of whatever and walk three flights of stairs in stacked heels. I was never one of those slurring-tit-flashing drunks. (Shhhhh. It'll ruin my image.) I wasn't a yawner. I never passed-out or puked in public. Oh, TO BE YOUNG AGAIN!

Postpartum me = extreme light-weightness or as I like to call it, Cheapos Dateosphoros Syndromamosopolis or if you do not understand ancient Greek,"Cheap Date Syndrome" which is a rather embarrassing disease.

My dehabilitating illness was proven last night after dinner with my old-roommate. One glass of cabernet later... After tripping over my barefeet several times I nearly passed out at the dinner table.

"Um, Bec?"
"Um, yeah?"

What went wrong? How did I go from proper, drinking class-act to amateur night co-ed at the K-town Kareoke joint? The huz says it's parenthood but it's got to be more than that, right? I read your blogs. I've seen your banners.

"Moms can drink a glass of wine without getting plastered"
"Not all moms"

Which is kinda true. My mom laughs at the wall's jokes after she has had cough syrup, so perhaps it's a postpartum family defect. I can't say for sure, but what I can say is that for now I'm sticking to hard-drugs. I can handle all that. Alcohol however, is way too risky.


Yo GGC Rapz #4*: Snoop Mommy Momz

Hello. My name is GGC and I have a clingy child. I am aware that it is a phase and it's cute as hell but... And there is a but. There is ALWAYS a but.

Anyway, I thought a Yo GGC Rapz was in order. I know I promised some Public Enemy and/or Beastie Boys but Snoop's Gin and Juice particularly fit the bill this time around. Especially it being 4.20 and all. Aren't link-illustrated mother-parody-rapz the next best thing to beer-can bongs and stained carpet? You're damn right, foos.

Yo! GGC RaPz prezents:


So much drama for the GGC
Kinda hard being M-O-double M, Y'see.
But I somehow, some way
Keep changing funky ass shit like every single day
May I kick a little something for the Mom-om-yz
I got a problem with my kid that's been kinda illing me'z (yeah!)
Two in the morning and da baby's still crying
Cuz his momma aint home.
Or maybe I am but I need some peace and quiet
Cause I've been carrying him around since six in the mornin! (six in the mornin)
So what you wanna do? (sheeeeit)
I got a pocket full of binkies and my huzband does too.
So I grab the kid and "let's roll out the door"
Cuz lil dude be hanging on me like never before
And he's gonna grow out of this, I hope.
His attached-to-mommy's hip was cute at first. Now? nope.

And he be...

Rollin down the street in da Stro-yo, sipping on apple juice.
(Not)Laid back. (With his mind on his Mommy and his Mommy on his mind)
Rollin down the street in da Stro-yo, sipping on apple juice.
(Not even close to being) Laid back. (With his mind on his Mommy and his Mommy on his mind)

Now that I got my boy some Pedialite
I hope it helps his lil tum cuz he's been puking all night
The little man wants to sleep with us all of the time
But what he don't recognize is that I've got to get mine!
Two in the morning and he's having a fit
At least I'm done with breastfeeding or he'd be hanging off my tit
He used to play happily with our bitch named Zadie
She's just a dog but she (used to) distract him like crazy
But now he just flails his little hands to be picked up
I guess I smell a little sweeter than our gaseous pup. (oh well)

SO late night we be...

Rollin down the street in da Stro-yo, sipping on apple juice.
(I wish) Laid back. (With his mind on his Mommy and his Mommy on his mind)
Rollin down the street in da Stro-yo, sipping on apple juice.
Laid back. (It's opposite day!) (With his mind on his Mommy and his Mommy on his mind)

Later on that night...
My homie Dr. Husband has an idea that just might
Keep baby busy and fulfilled so I can finally go pee
A new box of Zwieback toast for him and toilet paper for me. (relief!)
My arms so tired from his weight that I can barely see
Cause he's a growing lil boy and he sure aint light
And I love him way too much to put my dukes up and fight
But I can't take tonight, no not anymore
I put him crying in his crib, hit the bedsheets and snore
"Don't get upset, boy, that's just how it goes."
And eventually I'm hoping he grows
And with my face all smashed up in the pillooooows

I dream of...

Rollin down the street in da Stro-yo, sipping on apple juice.
Laid back. (With his mind on his Mommy and his Mommy on his mind)
Rollin down the street in da Stro-yo, sipping on apple juice.
Laid back. (With his mind on his Mommy and his Mommy on his mind) ...


*For Yo GGC Rapz 1-3 check sidebar. We out.

Feastover/The Curious Incident With the Babe and the Accessories:

Can I please have a kiss, please Mr. Fish? Msch. Msch. Msch.

Noooooooo, but SUNNNNNGLLLLAAAAAAASSSESSSSSS!!! Ahahahahahahahahhhhhhaaaaaaaaaa...

And then with the earrings:

I'm so happy. Isn't this great? Doot. Doot. Dooot....

Um.... Fish? Can you ease up off me, dude?

I want Eaaaaaarrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnngggggggggggg!!! Ahahahahakshjkadjkakjsl!

The Curious Incident With my Parents Being Awesome:
(Okay, not that curious)

Sorry about the mediocre costuming, little buddy. Next time I will remember your bow-tie. Dar, d-dar, dar, dar.


Dear "Placenta-Eating" Googlers,

Thank you for happening upon the GGC. I had no idea that Tom Cruise planned to eat Katie's Plac-sack until all y'all googled that shit and found me. In fact, T-delish is probably macking some nutes(nutrients)steak as I type. Mmmmmmm. I know! Anyway, if you are *interested* in placenta eating, go here. My girls have plenty of recipes, etc so you can have a Placenta-bake of your own! Totally.

I also would like to thank the Drudge Report for exposing all to the placenta-eat-a-thon. Kick ass.

And to whoever was searching for "Tom Cruise Eats Son's Placenta," Katie had a baby girl, Duh. And to the person who was searching "Tom eats human placenta" I'm not positive *it* is human. Perhaps, mineral?

Anyway, in case you were born on Neptune (and can somehow read blogs from your oxygen dome) Katie Holmes had her Hebrew-named Scientolgista this morning.

Mazeltof to the happy family, and/or may Mars be with her!


-picture stolen from Hot Momma Drama. Say, word.

Confessions of A "Masculist"

I am coming out of the blogista closet to declare,"I am not a feminist." But before you hate, let me explain. I do not disagree with those who are, I just would never call myself one. In fact, this post is about Masculists, and I'm not talking about what has been defined on the internet. For instance, a masculist is not an anti-feminist. On the contrary, masculinity and femininity are two sides of the Venn diagram. We all live together. My concern has to do with the overlap and it's equality. There is no real male equivalent for feminist. There are conservative groups who fight feminism, but I'm not about fighting, I'm about responding.

I do not feel like a victim. Sure shit has happened to me. Fucked up shit even and yet I would never call myself a victim. I do not blame men as a whole, either. Regardless of what has happened to me in my past, by men, by women, by whomever, I love men. I do. I respect men and wish them equal opportunity as women. I believe that my generation of men is not "liberated." I watched most of the boys in my graduating class do nothing while the women went to Law School: Lost boys. So many of them and I believe this is a NEW phenomenon. Women are empowered, strong, demanding equal opportunities, fighting for their rights!

I grew up with boys who never grew up. I have lived with men, lost... Some would call them "losers" but fuck it, if women are or were ever "victims of the times" then so are many men today. (Why is it that their sisters were a success while they looked at themselves as failures?) Perhaps this is all coincidence, a southern Californian phenomenon where the boys' goals are to surf or skateboard and deliver pizzas, and the girls see no limitations on their future. I grew up thinking I could do anything. I was in control. I had the power. It's called confidence and I had it in spades growing up but until I moved out on my own did I meet a man who had it too.

I am not afraid of men. I do not think men are the problem. I could call women cruel and vindictive creatures because I have known cruel and vindictive women and just as men have disrespected me, hurt me, fucked me up in some way or another, so have women. When I found out I was pregnant I wanted a son and I would like to have four more. And if I do, I hope I can teach them to stand tall because the more I meet men my age, men who cannot look a woman in the eye, wannabe Peter Pans with their "I will never grow up. I want to be a little boy forever!" talk, I am afraid for my son, coughing in the exhaust of the so-called feminist revolution where double standards are overlooked and women's rights seem to have less and less regard for men's.

Recently I had lunch with a friend and self-proclaimed feminist. In one breath she talked about wearing a low-cut shirt to a job interview, knowing it would help her land the job. Minutes later she spoke of the waiter looking down her blouse "What an asshole!" Equal rights for women? Totally agree. Demanding equal pay and then waiting for the man to spot the bill every night? Totally disagree. Equal means equal. There is a double standard and it's getting worse. And worse. Remember that little show Sex in the City? Funny show about "Manizers." Rich women seeking rich men to "take care of them." A modern twist on the classic tale. Old-fashioned stereotypes in a modern western-world everywhere you look.

The "Boys are Stupid, Throw Rocks at Them" phenomenon is a perfect example. If someone wrote a book, and was selling pajamas and shirts and posters that said: "Girls are Stupid, Throw Rocks at Them," shit would fly. The artist would be stoned. There would be marches and protests and rallies... It would be a serious offense. So what the fuck? Tell me how THAT is fair? How do I explain all this to my son when we pass the poster at the mall? "Well, because you are a boy, it's okay for girls to think you are stupid."

How would you explain that to your daughters?

Where does that leave men? Under a lot of pressure, threatened perhaps, not by women themselves but by the cultural changes in the climate. Global warming?

Women have always had the power, and although our voices may have been silenced, we spoke anyway, as muses, and revolutionaries. Sexual power, cultural power, financial power and suddenly men become utilitarian. "Men, who needs them?" We do. We are closing in on electing a women candidate for president. We have come a long way, people. It made sense yesterday to fight, but today? What about tomorrow?

The Lost boys of Never-Never Land are very real. Just like the strong, empowered women who raised their voices and stood tall. I am a mother of a son and like many of you with daughters I plan to raise him strong and empowered because I truly think for the first time in history the pendulum is swinging the other way.

Mary Walstonecraft Shelley had a point, in fact she had many and I adored, "A Vindication of the Rights of Women" And if we were living in the 19th Century, I would fight and bleed for women's rights but it's the Twenty-first Century now. There is a bigger picture here, one that includes men as well, and as the mother of a son, I am concerned.


Tag Team Back Again... MeMe-HeHe Time

I was tagged by my lovely friend at Kittenpie, and am fashionably late as usual. I answered the same MeMe a few months ago (with ten facts instead of six) so here are the next six random facts about Me and the Arch-ster.

Six Random Facts About Me-Me

1. I had a fake I.D. in highschool that said I was 28 and 5'2 with brown eyes and brown hair. In actuality I was 16 and 5'8 with green eyes and blonde hair but never once was turned away. Oh yeah, and the I.D was eight years expired. I used the I.D. until I was 21 and haven't really been to a bar since. Now when I do, I feel really old.

2. (More on Snails) When I was little I wasn't allowed to have a pet so I kept about a dozen snails as pets in a tank. I named them, fed them and took them out to play. Once the boy across the street put salt on one of my snails and sizzled him to death. This is my worst childhood memory.

3. While traveling in Europe I went to Church as much as possible. I really enjoy listening to sermons in a language I don't understand, it allows me to translate as I wish and the boys choir always makes me cry.

4. The only sport I am somewhat good at is Bowling. The don't call me "XXX" for nothing. Wha, what?

5. I once found a dead girl in the alley behind my work. She had jumped off the parking garage and committed suicide. There wasn't any blood. Another time I was the first car on the scene of a deadly accident. I knew the kid in the car who died on impact and watched his parents arrive at the scene. It was horrible. There wasn't any blood there either. I have no fear of death but I do fear happening upon the dead again.

6. Remember this? Well, I have nine fingernails now. My finger was smashed on the root and my nailbed is permanently effed. I am hoping for a manicure discount. It's only fair, right? Nine dollars for nine nails or whatever?... I'm also looking into a Margot Tenembaum wooden tip.

Six Random Facts About He-He

1. His favorite toy is a neon pink guitar purse that was at one time, mine.
2. If he was a girl he would have been named Colette Reverie. After the author. After the song.
3. He sleeps with his stuffed animal on his face.
4. He puts his nunu (pacifier) in my mouth sometimes, laughs and takes it back.
5. He has a brown stripe through his left eye, like a marble.
6. He has the most perfect baby-giggle ever, especially when he's exhausted and gets in his silly-mood. He also talks to his blankie and his fingers and laughs like they are joking with him. It's the best!


Where is my Mind?

And I'm not talking about the Pixies song...

We just arrived in San Diego for Passover Seder and Easter brunch. East-over or whatever... Peaster? Anyway, after three hours of traffic we arrived. We unpacked and ooooops, FORGOT Archer's suitcase. No clothes. No diapers. No nothing. The kid has the clothes on his back. He's like a small college student pulling a weekend study session in the ENC.

Not surprising I remembered to bring seven of Archer's hats. That was all. Dude has a hat for every hour and one shirt to last three days.

"Whatever you do, just focus on the kid from the neck up, mmmkay?"

WTF? I suck.


Young Carnivores and the Vegetarians Who Raise Them

I'm scared. Really scared. Archer has two teeth now which means he is ready to eat meat. Meat scares me. Meat makes me cry. Meat makes me think of beheaded-baby cows, and happy, little, prancing lambs shoved into crates and how when I was ten-years old I cried at the Del Mar Fair when the 4-H kids paraded their prize-winning Pigs, all of who were named, "Bacon" around the ring. Cruel AND redundant. I called my Mom and begged her to buy one for me so we could keep it in the backyard. Not possible so instead, I joined PETA and got down to writing letters protesting Circus Vargas and Gillette.

I stopped eating meat at age eleven, all but fish. A pescatarian for years until my senior year of highschool when I became a hard-core vegan thanks to my then-boyfriend who worked at a coffee-shop and only wore canvas shoes. I went back to refined sugar when we broke up and stopped eating cardboard and dirt. I also went back to eating fish. Lobsters and Sole aren't cuddly-looking and therefore do not make me lose my appetite when I sit down to dinner.

I was the only vegetarian in my household growing up and my Mom kindly cooked me meatless dishes every night for dinner because she respected my stance on animal-eating and also respected the fact I didn't try to convert the family. And even still I could care less if peeps choose to eat meat. I do. I'm not here to spread the dietary gospel. Pulease. It's my prerogative. My husband eats meat. All of my friends all meat. (Atkins, much?) Today I am back to eating chicken and turkey here and there: lunchmeat only as I cannot tear chicken off a bone, I just can't! I do not mind the carnivores who live among me. I DO mind cooking meat. I cannot do it. Fish? I can fillet the shit out of it, BBQ, bake and broil just about every sea creature, but raw meat? I vomit in my mouth when I see it, smell it and flat-out refuse to touch it. It's not that I'm squeamish, it's just that it's dead. Dead and sad-looking.

Which brings me back to my original thought: Archer & his teeth. I do not want to deprive the little man of meat just because I'm not a "meat cook". Just because I haven't had a hamburger in 13 years doesn't mean little man can't indulge once in a while. (So long as it's not fast food. DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON FAST-FOOD MEAT.) Because Gerber Chicken and Rice Dinners are fine for now but not for long, and legume and soy meals every night might not be his cup of tea. He's digging the Avocado and lentil soup for now but what happens when he asks for bacon with his yogurt? What happens when he wants Mommy to fix him steak? Chicken breast? Oh God! I get sick just thinking about it. I really do.


Hats All Folks: Silent Archer Films

The following are three short Archer movies. Sorry there is no sound. I can pretend that it was on purpose but really my camera is old and ghetto-fab, so no sound for you. One day, perhaps... One day.

The Hat Trick:

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The Smile Trick:

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The Teething on Mommy's Diaper Bag Trick:

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Today I am posting in response to myself. I was going through my archives recently, searching for photos of Archer. I was nostalgic, procrastinatey, the usual, when I came upon old entries that needed some new insight, additions.

Laughter Will Get You Everywhere:

I was trying to find the below photo for this post about my Dad.

I call this Preteen Attitude and the Tye-Dye Shirt:

It pretty much says everything there is to say about father-preteen daughter relationships.

It was my father's 40th birthday and I HAD TO BE THERE which was SOOOOO LAME because like, my boyfriend was TOTALLY getting stoned like, behind 7-11 and he totally wanted me to meet him so he could like play his guitar and we could like, talk about Nirvana and soooooo good. And because I love my Dad x googolplex infinity, I wanted to give myself the opportunity to insult the "me" of the past in his defense.

Old 7th Grade me: "OMG. What is he thinking in that hippie-shirt. Tote evs, lame. Pshhhh. 1969 called and wants it's tye-die back. Duh, Irma."
New Non-grade Me: "OMG, Becca. What are you thinking in that Wet Seal uni-pantsuit. The Fugly sisters called and want to set your rose-choker-thing on fire. And by the way, uh-uh-uh. Snap.

I got your back Dad.

Placenta a Woman

My hit count has gone up significantly after this post. It's unbelievable how many people want to see Women Who Eat Their Placenta Naked or Placenta-Eating As a Hobby or Craving The Taste of Placenta and my favorite, Placenta Meat for Dinner.

Most obviously I am quite surprised that I have not been queried by Vivid Video for title usage. I mean, PEOPLE love placenta. It seems like such an obvious move.

Who You Gonna Crawl?

Apparently not me. Still not happening.

Making Mom Friends

So I think I totally blew it with my Mom friend and I'm sad and mad at myself. I totally flaked and never called her back and that was like three months ago. Fu-uck. I suck at keeping friends. Soooooo, I am officially shouting out for my local folk with kids because I want to start a un-group group, if that makes any sense. Museums? Hiking trips? Book-store browse-a-thon? Whatever. As long as you're cool and have something other than parenting to talk about, you are invited. Oh, and you must have a little one(s) I would like to make it a twice a month date-thingy. Please R.S.V.P in the comment section or email me. (see profile)

Write On: A GGC Memo:

I might have been wrong about doing it all. I am in the middle of trying to start a new manuscript. I have written three pages in four different tenses. (Didn't think it was possible? It is.) My new idea for the new "great American novel" is clouded by my obsession with scribbling future baby names. I currently have 154 names ready and am only half joking when I say I just want to retire and squat for the rest of my fertile life and drop babies one by one like a friggin machine. What the hell has happened to me? I think I'm about to cry. Stupid blog. It's all you're fault! I can't stop writing about my kid. I am obsessed with all things baby! No wonder every new parent writer writes a book about parenting, tell-all guides, children's books, BECAUSE THEY DO NOT HAVE THE MENTAL ACCESS TO WRITE ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE. AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! PLEASE HELP ME! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!


From Baby Bjorn to Backpack

Archer is a huge man-baby these days and although I have tried to squeeze his sausagey self into the folds of the Baby Bjorn, I had to retire my favorite baby accessory to the baby gear retirement pile, eventually to end up in baby gear retirement pile in my former closet of my parent's house. Heh. (Ed: the photo to the left is supposedly some dude modeling some backpack-stroller thing that won a design award. Fascinating panel of judges, I assume.)

When I was in San Diego last week my mother literally left the house in her pajamas to buy me this backpack, in her post-hyterectomy-"I'm totally fine, Bec"-anti-surgery- recovering cabin fever victim-ness. Back in L.A. for a few days and OF COURSE I had to give the new ride a ride.

Ahhhhh, yes. Runyan Canyon. My favorite dog park and place to overhear celebrity gossip. Orlando Bloom dishing about Kate Bosworth? Tom Cruise's son talking about "not wanting to talk about Katie Holmes", Bob Barker talking to himself half-dead in his always color-coordinated workout gear, Jakey-poo and Kirsten throwing sticks at various dogs before adopting their own. But this is all in the past, people. Ions ago.

About two weeks after Archer was born I started with my 6:30 am hikes. I was on a serious mission to lose the 800 pounds I had gained. On two hours of total sleep, I got out of bed, grabbed baby Archer and headed for the hills. And I went every single day. OCD much? I was determined to brace the climb without the famous faces intimidating me with their ability to maintain looking perfect, even in sweats and trucker hats.

The best time to not-see celebrities is 6:30 am because they are either at work or still partying. I was right. Several months of early-to-rise-hiking trips and not one familiar face. Just a lot of dogs and gay guys. That's the way, uh-huh-uh-huh, I like it.

When Archer got a little older, I got lazy. Mind you, hiking with a squirmy infant and two dogs is not as easy as it sounds, especially when you got Anthony Kedis' Rhodesian Ridgeback humping Cooper and various porn-stars pomeranian's sequin-rhinestone dresses getting caught in Zadie's collar. I stopped going when Archer was looking a bit awkward, feet dragging up the hill in a half-strapped Bjorn.

BUT THE BACK PACK! Yes. The Backpack: the beginning of a whole new active-era for me and the Arch-man. Not only were we back in action, we would look like we were serious about hiking, not like all the beautiful people in their Paper and Denim and Costume National. So yesterday we went as a family. Mid-afternoon,enormous backpack, two happy dogs. Yeehaw.

We were barely out of the car when, trying to get the backpack on with Archer already in it, I swung myself into Ron Howard and family. But instead of asking "are you okay?" I said "hello." Bryce was there, my former girl-crush and nothing says girl-crush like a baby-backpack in the face.

Mid-afternoon is prime-celeb time, especially for men who like to be checked out by women. Top it all off with GQ's latest blurb about Runyan Canyon being the best place to meet women in L.A." and the hills were stacked with dork cum studs like "the pivert" conveniently jogging downhill with his IPOD.

We kept on up the mountain. Archer giggling from the bumps, me out of shape and bent at a 90 degree angle with my butt sticking out, so I wouldn't topple backwards which of course I did, as soon as we reached the end of the trail and I removed the backpack. But at least Ron Howard wasn't standing there.

And although I'm sore as hell today and walking kinda funny, I'm back. WE'RE back. Because I have a new favorite accessory now and I'm not afraid to rock it on the mountain-top... as soon as I can walk again... UM, yeah, maybe next week.


GGC Sunday Montage Presents...



Picture Me Rolling

The kid still aint crawling. He isn't scooting either. He isn't pulling himself around or pushing or wiggling or gliding. No. Instead he has taken the road less traveled. The road less comfortable, less socially acceptable, the road less upright and unpredictable: the road via rolling.

He wants a toy? He flops on his chest and rolls over to get to it. He wants mommy? He's a rolling to her. Cooper the dog? Rolling. Cheerios? Rolling. His bouncy car with three radio stations, stick shift (real men drive manual) and flashing blinkers? Rolling.

It's kind of odd and I'm wondering if this, perhaps like the separation tantrums and the only eating avocado is a sneak peek into a future bright with rebellion and anti-ness. Next it's tattoos, piercings and mosh-pits. FINALLY, someone I can relate to.

It is true that nobody walks in L.A. And we don't crawl either. We don't scoot or glide or meander. We don't do anything the normal way, the proper way, the by-the-book way. Aha! But we roll. We sooooo totally roll.


*Photo found when googling "babies who roll." Awesome.

Girl's Gone Husband

Two years ago today I met my husband. Partner in crime. Baby's Daddy.

Last year, I wrote a little something on ye olde blog and I decided repost one year later (today) because I was pregnant then, bedridden, grateful to be in love and I still am (grateful to be in love, not pregnant and bedridden.)

I guess wedding anniversaries are cool but for me, it's the day we met that always stands out. Seems to me a wedding is just another day, celebratory sure, but just another day. A meeting is much more. I am reposting this because I think with all the newness of being a parent we sometimes forget the newness of being in love. Whether it has been two years, twenty years, one hundred and sixty years... For me, I like to remember how it all started so I can remind myself when memories get lost in all the hustle of daily life, so I can tell Archer one day. Because even though love changes and grows over time, the stories of the past are whimsical valuables. They are as sure as the air we breathe, not to be discounted, stories to be retold and looked upon fondly.

I love you.

A Year in Review: April 5th 2005

It all started a year ago...

You walked into the coffee shop, grinning, pointing to the ceiling. A friend of a friend. We were all meeting for coffee. We had ideas. Always having ideas. "This is Becca." "This is Hal." "Nice to meet you." "Sure." Van Halen was playing a little too loud for a coffee shop. Van Halen was playing a little too low for a coffee shop on Melrose. It was our first time there. At 6:00 you can smoke in the coffee shop. We both were smokers so at 5:59 we lit up. We talked about a project. Something we could work on together. Our friend wanted us to meet because we had similar ideas. We would partner up soon after. We would do research on the weekends, watching movies on your couch and mine. I would cook you dinner and spill my wine, drunk and trying to impress you. I would fall backwards over the couch on my ass like a fool and you would ignore me and I would ask you if you wanted to watch My So-Called Life for research and you would play the guitar and say that it was time for you to go.

And I would chase you and bring you lunch and watch you while working. And when you picked me up one night and opened the door for me, even though we were only friends then, I knew that it wouldn't be long. So I called you and text messaged you love notes and you ignored them and asked what I meant by "this is crazy. Call me right now and tell me to come over." Because I don't play games and you like to be chased even though you never admit it. And one night you did call and I came. 3:30 in the morning but I didn't care and we smoked cigarettes by the pool in your backyard until you kissed me. I had been waiting an hour since I arrived. And before that- days, weeks... maybe even forever. And then we were together in the dark. "This was supposed to be a work partnership." "Oh well." And then we crept past your roommates, passed out on the couch and went to your room and I waited until the lights were off before I got into bed next to you.

And every day after that I came over to find you on your back by the pool, tanned in your bathing suit, guitar in the shade. And it felt like summer. Like being a kid and playing in the grass and staining my knees and sprinklers and the dogs that wrestled for your attention and my attention and how sometimes I would catch you looking at me and you would catch me looking at you and even though we couldn't see stars when we cuddled together outside in the night, we looked for them anyway.
And we went swimming and kissed in the shallow end and talked about liars and cheating and love and at the beginning we might have been apprehensive, even afraid that it would end up that way. What way? The way it always ends... with winter and how the seasons change, even when in a city like Los Angeles the weather doesn't.

And the first time I went away for a couple days, I stayed up all night and wrote you a love letter and even now, faded and torn, you keep it with you.

Months would pass and we would love each other, even when the tan went away and the pool was full of leaves and the dogs slobbered all over the couch I had kept clean when you came over. And instead of hiding embarrassing moments from you, I would share them and we would laugh. I wouldn't hold anything back. I would remove my makeup before bed and argue, seated on the toilet seat in my towel with mascara on my cheeks... Sometimes I would cry and burp without saying excuse me and you would follow me into the shower and tickle me until I couldn't breathe.

And every day was a surprise. You and me in the treehouse, which is what you called my bedroom because all you could see when you looked out the windows were the branches of the rubber trees in the street, overgrown and pressed against the windows. It was like a slumber party: smoking cigarettes in bed and playing truth or dare and falling asleep before dawn to the sweet hush of emergency sirens that passed every night, red lights washing over your face in sweet repose "Tell me a story, tell me a secret." "Which one?" "They are both the same."

And when I found out I was pregnant, and I showed up at your house with a purse full of Clear-Blue-Easy-peed-on-sticks, I was supposed to be coming over to do laundry but I couldn't get out of the car and you found me there, panicked and alone which was stupid, because I never was alone. Never when I had you. Never ever again. And you pulled me out with my head on your shoulder and we walked several blocks in the dark and I was shaking and you told me that you loved me and suddenly I was fearless. Of everything. Of being a mother and being with one person forever and of everything because I had a partner now, someone I loved. And when you said "we'll figure it out." I believed you.

And when I'm tired and won't stop cleaning the house and I can't figure out the medical insurance and the dogs want to go outside and "how the hell are we all going to fit inside this little apartment with one bedroom" and you tell me to relax and that you will take care of it, I shut-up. I listen. I lie down. I relax.

And every day I wake up and look at you and I can't believe it. And sometimes we drive past the coffee shop where we first met and you point to the sky and I think about smoking cigarettes even though I quit. We both quit together. Partners, for just over a year.*

*two, now.