I found a Nu-Nu in my Shoe-Shoe

As of late Archer has been hiding his pacifiers in strange and wonderful places, like for instance a Michael Kors shoe: (Uncle Frank's influence?)

Slightly more glamorous than the Tampax box I found his nu-nu in several hours ago, but hey... can't win 'em all.


Walker, Secret Ranger

Yesterday I caught Archer walking, privately. I was in the other room and when I caught him halfway between the kitchen table and the couch and I screamed, fell to my knees with hands on my cheeks, just as he quickly fell on his knees and crawled on with sneaky eyes, nothing to see here!

This morning he did the same thing except I pretended not to notice and make a big deal. Perhaps the pressure was too much so I faked indifference.

"Two steps? Whatever. That's nothing," I said and went back to doing the dishes.

Last week I caught him walking (three steps?) down the hall before he fell to his knees. I thought maybe I was hallucinating. I had sort of resigned myself to the fact I would never see my son on two feet, at least not until after his fourteenth birthday.

But I think he was walking. I think he can walk. I think he has been walking... in secret.

I have decided that Archer is the smallest spy in town. He leads a double life and when I put him down to bed he secretly climbs out of his crib and walks around his room all night long. Much like the nutcracker and all of the holiday toys who come to life on Christmas Eve, Archer waits until I'm fast asleep and then he parades around the house on two feet. March, 2,3,4!

Perhaps he even sneaks out the window to show off his skills to the squirrels (or as he often says, "quirls"). Maybe he even climbs the persimmon tree in the backyard in sneakers, because in Archer's "secret life," he will actually wear SOMETHING beside Robeez.

AND MAYBE, just MAYBE one day, he will let me in on his little secret. Maybe, someday soon, I'll catch him walking and instead of falling to the floor, he'll smile and walk straight into my arms.


One Shit Wonder

This is my 300th post (not that that means anything but I thought I'd share.)

ANYWAY...Poop. Shit. Fecal Matter. Or as some people call it, "mess." Have I explained to you that it is my pet peeve when people call poop, mess? Like "Dog Mess?" ACK! It's always muttered out of the same breed of twisted mouth. Hate. Anyway... Crap. Dung. Poo-Poo. Stinky Stink. Etc. But for the sake of a good title, let's just call it, "shit."

Archer poops once a day. It's a very large "shit." and it happens around the same time, mid-morning usually, before naptime. It demands my full attention. A dozen wipes? Check. Diaper on deck, ready to wear? Check. White robe? Check. Goggles? Check. I'll spare you the details for now. I know, I know, you're welcome.

But here's where it gets REALLY exciting: As of late, Archer has become, Crouching Baby, Hidden Dragon up in this bitch, sneaking off to do his duty away from my watchful eyes, and it's my favorite thing in the world.

Yeah, you heard me, Archer's new crouch-poop under the table gives me more pleasure than a pint of Haagen Dazs ice-cream.

He does this thing with his face, makes this little puzzled look, checks to see if I'm looking (I pretend like I'm not) and then he grunts and does poopy smile, looks to see if I'm looking (still pretending like I'm not) and then finishes with a second grunt, and crawls off toward his bedroom for me to change him.

Next stop toilet training, right? Psh, I know but I can't be bothered thinking about that yet. For now, I'm enjoying his wonder-poop.

Ah, yes... The sweet comfort of my one shit wonder.


Star Power?

I've only been starstruck once. It was the year after Run Lola Run came out and I ran into Franka Potente in a Tabac in Paris. We both were buying the same Gauloise cigarettes and even without that fire red hair, I was smitten. I followed her out of the Tabac and through the third arrondissement like some kind of spy, scarf around head, big sunglasses, Canadian flag on my American backpack. (Sneaky, no?)

I spent my entire day stalking her, but then again I was in Paris and she was German and it all seemed so exotic, so romantic, and at the time Run Lola Run was like the holy grail.

Since then I have ran into many a celeb. They're everywhere. Friends of friends and neighbors and bar-goers and club-hoppers and runyan canyon hikers. Shit, they literally speed up our street in their Maseratis every morning en route to Paramount.

But starstruck I am not. Star-fascinated I very much am. It's kind of like living with aliens except they're human (kinda) and they drive around Hybrid Lexus' instead of spaceships (except for Tomkat who cruise Sunset in their Ferrari SpaceJet ZX.)

My issue is that sometimes when I see an actor in my natural habitat I get very confused, like for instance a few years back when shopping at the Beverly Center, I had a panic attack when I saw Keifer Sutherland step out of Hugo Boss, nervously talking on his cell-phone and wearing his token Ball-gina (think camel-toe for men) jeans and leather jacket.

I was in the middle of Season Two of 24 on DVD and thought for several moments that Kiefer was actually Jack Bauer and that any minute Centox Gas would be leaked into the mall and I would die. I ran for the door until I realized that I had temporarily gone insane. Jack Bauer became Kiefer Sutherland again and I casually turned back toward Betsey Johnson and smacked myself in the head. (Duh!)

And that wasn't the only time...

This dude works out at my gym. We have the same schedule apparently because we're always on the bike, side by side during the afternoon and every time he sits down next to me I get a little bit scared. Not because dude is scary but because I just recently saw Capote, where said man played the pathetic killer who was eventually hanged. I feel like I'm riding bikes with a ghost. Weird. Kind of like how I was sitting next to this dead LOST character at The Wiltern the day after she died on the show. (In my perfect afterlife, I'd be rocking to Belle & Sebastian, too.)

A few years ago, at a gallery opening, I spent 20 minutes trying to explain to my friend's friend, Justine that indeed we had met before. I couldn't for the life of me remember where but I was POSITIVE.

"You're just so familiar!" I explained.

"No! Trust me, we have not met before," she finally said before storming off.

I realized later that she was the chick from Family Ties and felt like a complete asshole for thinking we were friends. It's just that, Mallory was like an older sister to me, you know?

But yesterday, at the park, the opposite happened. As I passed Debi Mazar pushing her stroller by I thought, "Cool! Debi's taking her baby for a walk."

I didn't notice the camera and small crew and the fact she was actually pushing a plastic doll and not a real baby.

It wasn't until she started fake-waving at me and the other moms in the sandbox that I realized they were shooting some B-ROLL for Enterouge. I guess I just thought she had a lot of nannies. And a hairguy. And another hairguy for her baby. It wouldn't be the first time.

One of the Moms, who like me, had not noticed the crew at first, reached over the carriage to peek at the baby.

"How old is your baby?" She asked.

"Six months. But this isn't my baby. My baby's at home. This is just a doll."

The woman turned white and then red and finally blue (shock is patriotic!) before Debi M explained that they were shooting.

I'm pretty sure there are very few cities in the world where grown women in full-makeup are pushing around dolls in neighborhood parks while they're real baby is home with the nanny.

Can you really blame me for being a little bit on the confused side sometimes?


Okay. I Take it Back. I'm in No Rush.

The wonders of pregnancy and childbirth are that as soon as it's over it's forgotten. When I think of being pregnant, I think of my first six months. A mere five pounds gained, no morning sickness, super cute maternity clothes, high heels and rocking the belly like it was some kind of new accessory. I LOVED being pregnant... At first. (Before the pre-eclampsia and the swollen EVERYTHING and the whole 200 pounds thing and being bedridden and monitored four days a week and, oh yeah, the last month was pure hell.) But I don't think of that when I look back on my pregnancy. I literally picture myself in red leather boots and camo belly pants, Diane Von Furstenberg flowing tops, running all over town, glowing and excited and counting down the days until I met Mr. Archer Sage. I picture myself as I was in my first six months: somewhat attractive, relatively comfortable in my skin.

Today, while digging through proof sheet archives for a gift, I came across the few remaining photos of me (gulp) just after giving birth (gulp, gulp) Most of them had been confiscated but the following three photos somehow (and sadly) survived:

Behold: Cute baby, bloated Mommy. And wtf happened to my nose? That thing should have it's own zipcode!

Just keep looking at the baby, Huzzy. And don't worry. You don't have to have sex with me for six weeks.
Indeed, if there is any way for me to prolong my second pregnancy, it's got to be these photos, because yes, Archer is adorable (you can barely make him out below my GIANT HEAD) but I am an absolute beast. Call me selfish, shallow, whatever, but I'd like to enjoy the fact that my nose is no longer melted across my face, for at least another year. I'm not ready to lose my eyes to enormously chubby cheeks.

I'm well aware I'm far from perfect but I'm also far from this (I think):

 Can someone please photoshop me out of this beautiful family portrait? I'm really spoiling the vibe.

Call me shallow but I'm not ready to kiss my body goodbye, no matter how hard said body is telling me otherwise.

Now if you will please excuse me, I have a prescription for Ortho Tri-Cy to fill. Like, um... Now.



...Has taken over. For the love of all things full of holes, please help me. Hey Zeus? Are you listening? Please get baby off my humble little brain so I can sleep again. So I can write again. So I can live my life again, like a sane person. Halfway sane person. Quarter of a sane person?

And yes, you heard me. I said, baby... But not the one I already have, the one my brain thinks I should have. Right now. The little voice that shouts, "Baby #2! BABY #2!" 24/7 and on repeat. The voice that makes it near impossible for me to sleep at night and/or think about anything else.

But I don't want a baby right now. Yes you do, bitch! No I don't, bitch! Yes! No! Yes! No! Yes! Leave me alone!!!! Nope. NEVER! You will HAVE ANOTHER BABY!!! No! Please! Just give me another year! We're not at all ready! Yes you are, woman! Do it!!!

Battle of the italics. Battle of the brains. So far "I" am winning but just barely.

It starts like this: exhausted I get into bed after my 8pm-1am work-shift, usually around 1:30. I'm zonked because I haven't been sleeping because of my damn in(fant)somnia and I snuggle under the covers with heavy eyes and then within seconds, this dancing baby appears under my eyelids and tries to dance with me and for hours it stays there, like a brain tumor.

Sometimes sex helps but usually not. Dude rolls over and passes out. I roll into some surreality, a strange drooling universe where babies hold hands and dance around me, calling me mommy and asking me to have them. All of them. Can you imagine? How unfair is it for a hundred psychopathic babies to put that much pressure on me? It's straight-up mean, I tell you. MEAN!

We're not at all ready to have another baby. There are a zillion reasons why. Literally, squillions. Our unplanned pregnancy was one thing but to plan on getting pregnant again is to require some preparation. The problem is, I've become obsessed for some reason, and am hereby pronouncing myself mentally unstable.

I hate that I have no clue how to rid my baby-brain so I can think about basic things that should be consuming me, like for instance, how to take care of the one child I have.

It's like my biological clock is going apeshit. It never did before! It only started when Archer was about six months old and is only getting increasingly worse to the point I can't get the damn "tick! tick! tick!" out of my head. Why? Where has it come from and how do I make it go away?

I'm like Jekyl and Hyde in this mother. How can I sleep again in peace? Write in peace? Go about my daily existence without visions of sugarplums with faces and legs and cute little naked bottoms dancing in my head? HOW!

I haven't blogged about this yet because I'm a little embarrassed at my subconscious' obsession with having another baby. I didn't even want to acknowledge my mind-control issues but after several months of bedtime wars (not with Archer, with MYSELF) I feel the need to reach out. Because maybe, just MAYBE some/one of you has the same issue(s). Or maybe, JUST MAYBE one of you has a cure for my disease. Is there a drug on the market?

Please OH PLEASE!!!

Because I'm becoming an insane person. Because Archer is quite enough for now. Because I have a list a zillion pages long of things I want to do before baby #2 and yet, the insane baby-wanting side of my brain couldn't give TWO SHITS! Strangely enough, my brain has no problem fantasizing about changing TWO TIMES the shits...

Go figure.


GGC Weekend Recs

1. Bark Bark Bakery's Bisquits- I know, I know. I've already posted about my dog's weighty issues and here I am recommending gourmet dog treats but my new friend, Crystal from BarkBark mailed me (and the dogs) some of the most amazing treats you've ever seen or tasted (Yes, I even tasted them and they're DAMN GOOD) They're gorgeous and much of the proceeds go to several awesome pet-charities...

Get $10 off any purchase of $30 or more with code: GGCBARK, now through the end of October!

Your pets will thank you, and MAYBE forgive you for ignoring them since the pet human came along.

2. Little Miss Sunshine: A simply perfect film. Go see it now.

3. Cookie Magazine I wanted to make it clear that although I'm pretty disappointed with all parenting magazines I do adore Cookie and after this month's issue I thought I'd post a rec. Cookie's pretty much the only magazine with taste, style, featuring amazing mother-women with, well, taste and style. When Cookie arrives in the mail I get as excited as I do when I find Vogue and/or Harper's Bazaar in the box. Subscribe. I promise you won't be disappointed.

4. Peanut Better (yeah, turn up your volume... The site has good Jam. Heh! Get it? Good Jam!) I'm addicted to Peanut Better's Cinnamon Currant . My baby's daddy recently rec'd some free Peanut Better c/o Al Gore and the An Inconvenient Truth premiere. (FYI. We also got a hemp bag and tons of basil seed as well as a really awesome pair of shoe-laces made out of recycled cans. Jealous?) At first I thought Peanut Butter as swag was kind of, um, different (not that the hemp bag and various herb-seed was the usual premiere-worthy take-home gifts) but then I tried it. And it was good. And since then I just can't get enough. Go buy it online and/or at Whole Foods. Seriously, get on your bicycle and go NOW!

5. Bachelorette Parties- maybe it's just me but I don't get out much anymore so when it happens I become somewhat of a catholic student on spring break. My dearest friend is getting married in two weeks so I got a weekend baby break. It was much needed night out (my apologies to the various palm trees I freaked and the cab-drivers I harassed. I really thought "Moroccan Roll" was a funny play on words.)

I had so much fun and am paying for it today.

Oh but it hurts so good.



He talks all day long and can say pretty much anything. Like for example,"perch". He can say perch. And anemone. He can say horse and carriage and ferrari and he can say Salvador Ferragamo. He can also say "I feel like a dinner roll" and "stop! or my mom will shoot!"

Except he does it in his own language.

"Archer! How was your day?"

"Goo dit. Di gah la pooduplaaaaaah gigi! Alalalawalawalawalala HOOOOOT!"

"Yes! Dit! Dit you have fun?"


"Fantastic! Shall we read a book?"

"Plth. Jow. Jow in lapalapa."

"Good boy with your words, Arch! My Lapalapa is right! Come sit down in my lapalapa and we will jow pth!"

"Garlo Ifkis bahbahbahlooooooo. Cous cous."

"YES! Good Boy! That's right! We're going to read Ten Little Dinasoars! Can you say dinosaur?"

"Ah-pu Dardardar."


And I seriously am excited. This crazy language makes me so proud. Even if he's nowhere near saying Cat and Dog, I SWEAR he can say ambulance when he feels like it. It sounds like "Haaaselpblthhhhh" but whatever, close enough.

Something like eight months ago I blogged about Archer's first word: Dragon. I'm beginning to think it was a fluke. He has yet to say anything since then beside the occasional mama, dada, and "NO!" Hmmmm. Maybe I should cross that one off the babybook first word list. He was six months old, after all. And now he's sixteen months.

Still no walks by the way. Yeah. We're still knee-ing.

"Hey Arch. Wanna knee race?"

"Golinrarar. Dit Doot Dit Loop."

"Yes! Good! We're going to go to the park! Can you say sandbox?"


"Come on, dude! SAAAAANDBOX"

"Garsjklaks! Lucalalciallica."

"Good man!!!!"

Who needs walking when you have words like "pololololololalalalalalblth and dit-dit-paloolalalacka-woo."

Yes, indeed. Pure jow lapalapa.


Half Breaking. Half Trying to Pick up the Pieces.

It's been one of those weeks where everything seems a little bit broken and I find myself staring into space, a voyeur, searching for clues in my own life. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall...

You know that feeling? Like you want to throw up and you don't know where the sick feeling is coming from. Except I think I know. I think I'm beginning to figure it out.

My greatest fear (beside technology) is routine. I cannot stand the thought of having one. At the same time though, I realize that there's a part of me that takes great comfort in the mundane, the predictability of it all. At my core there is a great need for unpredictability and chaos, hence the internal war I feel like I am fighting. Losing, most likely but fighting nontheless: the hypothetical screaming match, two faces with sharp tongues smacking each other senseless. Every day there is fighting. Fighting the wake-up calls and bedtimes and work schedules. Fighting the pay-by dates and the Wednesday night programming and the lunch-hour. Fighting the suburbs and it's SUV club and khaki pants and bad taste. Fighting the fears of adulthood. And then fighting back.

I've posted before about feeling overwhelmed, trying to do it all and feeling that nothing is ever getting done and that's a painful feeling too. Another part of me feels that "trying to do it all" isn't the issue, that as my priorities are shifting, a part of me is rebelling against responsibility.

There are days when I get in my car to go to the gym and for a split second think about turning right, instead of left. Taking the 101 to San Francisco to join the street performers (I could play the tambourine!) and dissapear.

I would never leave my child, of course. He's my life. But see? There it is again. He's my life. Pretty scary sometimes. Because there is much routine in life as a parent. Plenty of (organized) chaos as well but mostly routine and a lot of time lost between trying to catch up with life and outrun it at the same time. Faster, so it all blurs. Faster and I can be spontaneous again. I can be free. Selfish. I can wander aimlessly. Get beautifully lost.

I have a tendency to feel according to metaphor. I have broken up with boyfriends based on signs, dreams and moments that seemed too poetic to ignore. A collapsing ceiling for instance. A broken glass. So when my computer breaks I think it's representative of my work, my career. I think maybe I'm wasting my time writing, working on manuscripts, keeping dreams alive, exhaling through fingertips that are calloused and tired. Waiting...

The I button of my keyboard is broken. A quirk. It keeps flying off when I press it. It snaps into place but only for a moment until I hit it with my middle finger and then POP! The I is up in the air. I am up in the air.

I once lost the escape key to an old computer. It made sense. I felt trapped and couldn't escape. And now? The "I" button. A defect. And suddenly I feel as if it, too, makes sense. Am I defective? Am I afraid of acting like a grown-up? Am I afraid that routine has replaced passion? Do I feel inspired enough to write anything decent? Because for once in my life I have writer's block. For the first time in my life I sit down at my computer to work on my manuscript and I stare at blank pages as my blind hero wanders aimlessly, back and forth between chapter two and chapter three wondering what to do next and I don't know what to tell him. I don't know where I want him to go.

And so I write an outline. For the first time in my life I write an outline. I do what I'm supposed to do. I follow directions. The rules. Like the book says. A book I used to throw out the window and into the faces of the English teachers I walked out on every day at school. I was a complete brat, a real know-it-all but at least I knew what I wanted. Now I'm not so sure.

"I'll do it my way. Goodbye," I used to say.

But I cannot do it my way anymore. It's not about me anymore and a part of me is rebelling against that. Frustrated and lost in transition, whispering profanities when no one is listening. Pop! The I key is in the air.

I want to be taken care of and at the same time I want so badly to be able to take care of myself. And I can't. I want to help everyone including myself... and I can't. I want to show Archer that life is not cookie-cutter, that the world is wild and unorthodox and there is beauty in the dark and disgusting, that rolling around in the dirt is wonderful and here, let's eat sand all day and fingerpaint with ice-cream..! And yet, all the while I hold in my hands a box of wet wipes. Antibacterial.

You can never be too careful.

Yes you can! No, you cannot.

Everyday I find myself caught in these moments. Trying to discipline. Becoming the authority figure when all my life I have been unable to respect authority. (Three years ago I ended up with a gun to my head and my face in the concrete for resisting arrest. Long story. I was innocent. I swear.) When all my life I have broken the rules in order to feel emancipated. Broken the speed limit and the law. Broken hearts and bones and felt good about it... (okay, maybe not good but alive!) Like I was doing what I wanted to do! Selfish and cruel and often dangerous and I collected these feelings and experienced and was inspired. Depressed, yes, but working! There was no routine. Not even a 9-5 job. No need for benefits and budgets and annual exams. No dress-codes or access-codes. No by-the-book living. I was alone. It didn't matter. I didn't care.

Now I do. I care a lot. I care about jobs providing benefits. I care about money and lifestyle and keeping a clean house, an orderly life. And it's consuming me. COMSUMING.

Sometimes I miss the yesterdays. The guts.

I suppose the guts are still there. Maybe. I can turn myself inside out and check but a part of me is afraid that when I do, I will find a clean interior, wires tied neatly in a bow with a cherry on top. Neat and tidy. White picket-fenced in. Responsible. Shoot me, then. In the foot. Watch me bleed. And no, I don't want a bandaid.

Growing up, my Mom was every much together. Is together. She never cussed. She never flipped anyone off. She never broke the law. Snuck out for a cigarette. Drank. I had a cookie-cutter childhood and feel blessed to have had that. Everyone loved one another. My parents never fought (and if they did, we never knew about it.) We were the perfect family. On the outside. On the inside. How lucky.

But I am not my mother. I am myself. And while I want what's best for my child I also want what's best for me and I think, instead of beating myself up, trying to pacify the wars that consume me, it's time I came to terms with the truth.

And the truth is: I'm not a grown-up. I like to pretend that I am. I like to appear mature for my age and so together and ... I'm not. Not even close.

Because although bearing a child causes one to grow up practically overnight, there are major growing pains. And it's okay for me to feel torn in two. I think it might be normal even.

The truth is that only Humpty-Dumpty could put himself back together again. (It's says so in the invisible print of the epilogue.) And it took him years to do so, maybe his entire life.

And maybe Humpty Dumpty was never the same. Maybe he climbed back on the wall without an arm or a foot or an ear and looked upon a new view, from a different side of the wall, and maybe he was happy there. Maybe he realized that just because he was a work in progress didn't mean he had to hide his weaknesses, fill the missing pieces haphazardly. Maybe he was whole in a new way.


Confessions of a Macochist: More Bad Apples

Macochist: (n) A loyal mac-owner who is in constant denial over the fact that his/her Mac IS NOT the superior machine he/she says it is; Owner of a problematic Mac who after living with a faulty machine for three years, bought a newer, still faulty machine and spends much of her days without her Mac (in the shop) and/or crying because of technical issues

I have confessed to being a Masculist but today I have bigger fish to fry. Corporate fish and after my rant on technology I am feeling especially fiesty. Fiesty, you say? Yes. I am shaking like a leaf, frustrated and would like a cigarette. Or maybe just a computer that works. That would be nice (although seemingly impossible.)

I bought an IBOOK three years ago. Within three weeks of taking it home the screen went black. When I called Mac Support the lady on the end of the line admitted that the IBOOKS had logicboard issues and that I should drop it off at the Mac store for repairs. THREE WEEKS LATER, my computer came back. It worked. For a few months. And then the screen went black again. This happened FOUR TIMES. Mac admitted I had a faulty computer but that there was nothing they could do but fix it, even though it never was fixed.

"It's a lemon but unfortunately there is nothing we can do for you. Would you like a free battery?"

Mac offered me all sorts of gifts. New battery. New power chord. New program. My own Mac email address. I said No to all them because I wanted a new computer and I was promised "If it breaks once more, we'll give you a brand new machine."

Hours of crying on the phone. Hours of crying in general. I believed them. Then my computer went black again (about a month ago) and when I called Mac support I was informed that because the WEEK BEFORE Mac Support had expired, I would not be eligible for a new machine and tough luck.

Okay, so tough luck. I cried again. I kicked and screamed and wrote a letter of complaint that was never responded to. I paced. I cried again. But the worst part about it all? When my husband so wisely suggested "Don't get another Mac. Buy a PC this time" I shook my head, "No. I want a new Mac. The new Macs will be different."

Like a typical macochistic bitch, I was coming back for more. I trusted that next time would be different.

So I bought a new Mac. I charged $1400 dollars and came home with a brand spanking new MacBook and for two -whole weeks it worked. Two weeks! And then? Random shut-down here. Random shut-down there. Random shut-down over and over until it was obvious I wasn't getting on my computer. WTF!?

I was told over the phone that Mac knew this was an issue and would be happy to give me a new computer, even though, and I quote, "the new computer will probably have the same issue." Which means that Mac is selling bad apples. Yes. BAD APPLES. There is NO EXCUSE for this and it sucks to spend a shitload of money on a product that is BAD. They know it's bad and are not telling.

fortunately, customers are. Someone has even started a website in protest of the MacBook random shut-down. There are also about a thousand forums out there about these same issues.

If you are thinking about getting a Macbook, DON'T. Just because Steve Jobs is "cooler" than Bill Gates doesn't mean he's a better boyfriend, know what I mean?

In fact, Bill Gates is looking mighty fine right about now. And Steve Jobs? I've had it with you. This is the last Mac I will ever own and I NEVER want to see you again.

I may have been a Macochist in the past but I'm over it. You hear that, Imovie and Ichat and Iphoto and Ilife? Imoverit. For real this time.


Attention Writers Who Parent, Parents Who Write, People who Read this Blog Who are Not Parents but Think Parents are Still Cool Who Write


I know that many of you, beside keeping a blog are working on books, specifically novels, and like me find yourself easily distracted, lacking the support you might need/want from peers/friends/spouses, beating yourself up for feeling overwhelmed by the work ahead. (Because writing a novel is A LOT of fucking work.)

Anyway, I'm thinking about launching a writers-group-blog for writers who are drafting their novel(s) and would like the feedback and support of fellow writers as well as editors. (I have already spoken to my fave editor-dude eva and he's excited to be a part of this.)

I have no idea if this is going to work but I thought I would at least try. I think it's very important for writers to write and although blogging is fantastic, I thought I would offer the opportunity for all of you who have a story to tell, to tell it. A writer's community may be just what you need to get inspired.

Please email me if you're interested in participating: rebeccawoolf@hotmail.com

Say Word,


Thanks for all of your emails and I wanted to clarify that if you are working on short-stories, non-fiction, ANYTHING you are more than welcome! Several of you have also mentioned that you have had a project in the works and/or have one you would like to start. Again, WELCOME! Basically the group is open to anyone and everyone who is serious about their manuscript(s), regardless of what stage you are at with it. The blog WILL NOT be open to the public as to keep people's work private.

I'm having computer issues today (Hi, BRAND NEW MACBOOK = SUCKS... might have to blog about this later to warn all my peeps that Mac, though very chic with cool programs and design makes utter shit.) Regardless, I will get back to all of you after I get organized with this. In the meantime, thank you for your emails and keep them coming!

You're all awesome and I'm really excited about this! High fives all around and many exclamation points!!!

A Week in Photos, Family Edition

For the past week we have had a house full of visitors and as of an hour ago, they have all left, my in-laws back to New York, my brother-in-law off to Australia and my brilliant friend and editor, Sal, back to San Francisco. Meanwhile I have been busily uploading a zillion photos and moping in an empty house. Well, not exactly empty... Okay, so I'm not moping either but I love me some family time and cannot wait for us all to get together again.

For more pics, go here. Have a great weekend. Love to the family.


Fear and the Future

I'm going to try to blog about technology but it's kind of like trying to write about death. So many questions. So much empty space full of fear of the unknown. Infinite space and words and questions. We'll see how it goes...

It's just that as of late it's been on mind. I have always been deathly afraid of technology. It's speed. Our dependence. It's lack of imagination. It's coldness. It's God-like presence in life. And that is before I even get to thinking about it in relationship to Archer. Archer's future. Growing up in a time when the only time paper is touched is when transferred from ream to printer and pictures are drawn with mousepads and screens and instead of a journal by the bedside there is a laptop. A palm pilot. A Blackberry. When books are replaced with Cliffs Notes and the movie

When there is no need to be involved in the act of creation. An expensive camera and everything is beautiful. An expensive program and you can write and record your own songs, even if you cannot play an instrument, even if you have a terrible voice. It can all be repaired with effects.

Anna Karenina took Tolstoy seventeen drafts. And he did them all by hand. I cannot even fathom the possibility. It is like saying Tolstoy grew wings and flew to the moon. Is there a place for Tolstoy today? If he existed would the computer change him? Would it be far too easy? Would he lose his imagination? Become distracted by Dostoevsky's Blog? By the latest Russian street gossip? Or would he have written Anna Karenininininina, an even greater manuscript because of a greater technology? Why do I think not? Why?

Have we dumbed the world down by making everything so accessible?

Why has technology lowered our standards? Why has mediocrity take over where creative genius once was rampant? And what will happen as time goes on? What will happen to our children? Will talent become obsolete? Have we moved forward so fast there is nowhere left to go?

Video killed the radio star and computer killed the imagination. Or has it just created something better? Why imagine when you can flip a switch, when the computer can build a fantasyworld for you. Just click here and sign here. Do you prefer blondes to brunettes? Fame to fortune?

I am quite obviously a hypocrite. I prefer manual to digital photography and yet seldom take photos the "old-fashioned" way. I haven't printed my own photos in five years. I simply point, shoot, upload. I used to write in my journal, edit drafts by hand and write short stories in my moleskin. Now, I can type 300 words a minute and do so, never so much as scribbling by hand except for when I'm away from home. Away from my computer. I frown upon internet relationships for killing the humanness of flesh and blood contact and yet some of my closest friends are people I have never met in person.

Bigger, better, faster, more, more, more. Short and sweet. No attention span. Have a problem? Drug it. Lonely? Chat on the web. Have sex on the web? Shop for a husband on the web.

Does the computer push us foreword because it's fast? Because it makes it so much easier, so much more efficient as writers and parents and people? Or does it make us lazy? Does it keep us inside for days on end, make it possible for us to buy even our groceries with a click of a mouse, express our feelings and emotions and thoughts without so much as opening our mouths, picking up a piece of paper, sharpening a pencil. Meanwhile our children have mastered the art of Madden Football but refuse to go outside to play sports.

When the computer crashes we do not understand. When our phone lose signal we curse. "This stupid thing!" and when our car dies we cannot believe our luck. We are dependent on wires and switches and chips. We depend on machines. Machines are better than people. Machines will not argue. They will not offend us. They will not break our hearts. Ah, yes but they will. They too are not perfect but they're pretty damn close.

Dependency. It is my dependency on my computer that has made me into a person who expects too much out of everything and everyone. Won't Archer be the same? How can I keep this from happening when I cannot keep myself from high expectations, from wanting more?

And yet, if technology has enabled us so much more out of life why do I look around and see very little of substance. Where is the modern day Tolstoy and what have we done with the imaginary friend. We drug our children so they can sit quietly in school and listen. We become depressed because no one can fulfill us like Grand Theft Auto and Fantasy Sports. Fantasy, yes. Everything is a fantasy now, a virtual fantasy. No need for an imagination. No need for a brain.

...Because no one will ever be as beautiful as fantasygirl69 on aim. No one will ever be as good a friend as our Blogging BFF's. No one will ever look as good naked as the airbrushed chick on the cover of Maxim. No one will ever be good enough. No one will ever be faster than our computer, a better chess player, a more fulfilling thing.

As many of you know, I chat with children online for work. Many of whom are bedridden, terminally ill, handicapped. Again, I will admit to my hypocrisy. The organization for which I work is wonderful and allows children the online playground they need to interact with other kids like themselves and feel "normal." Some of these kids are online all day and for them, having a place online to interact with their peers all over the country is a blessing and a life-saver. Many of these kids have never had a friend outside of the computer and I can empathize but there are healthy children out there who do the same? Healthy children with legs and working lungs and a brain that isn't riddled with tumors. Children gaining weight, becoming lazy, becoming empty, dead. Color inside the lines. You don't even need a crayon. Crayon? It's this cool tool used to make color. Do what you're told. Follow directions. Memorize the facts. Be the next Bill Gates. Technology is power. Hurry up. Too much competition. Whatever it takes. Do your research. Keep up, don't slow down or you will die. You will be trampled by computerized legs and you will D.I.E.

Even as we "move forward" I feel like we are holding our children back. Even as we push them to skip grades and excel and be the very best they can be we are robbing them of experience, of soul and of imagination and the joy and sadness of human emotion. On the internet our children can experience the world! They can meet friends and play games and travel to the ends of the earth all alone. Alone. And where are we? Blogging? Researching schools? Reading parent advice and checking our emails?

I start to think about the future and I panic. I've never been afraid of much, on the contrary. I do not fear death. I do not fear bad guys or disease or spiders or anything of the sort. I do fear the machine. I fear that Archer will grow up competing against fact and speed, that he will be even more dependent than I am on computers and cell phones and gadgets. I fear most of all that all of the beauty in life will be sucked out of the moment and packaged on a DVD.

I'm afraid that I will wake up with a computer monitor for a face looking into the dark moniter faces of my children who walk the house with wires for ears and control panels for hands. I'm afraid we will have found a way to be jolly and perfect and numb and we will live happily ever after in an utopia of gadgets and buttons and access to everything, the whole wild world, twisting and bending under the fluorescent light like National Geographic holograms.


There Are No Words

We've had family visiting all week. Will resume blogging asap. In the meantime, this is the yummiest face eva. Tre delicious...


Parenting WTF

Hi. Hello, there. Quick question...

Why is it that the ONE food item my baby cannot eat is the ONE food item that looks most like a toy?For realsies, "WTF?"


9/11, Remembering Five Years Ago

Five years ago I was living in London. Off Battersea Bridge Road on Petworth Street. I had just dropped my brother off at Heathrow Airport. He had come to visit me before College and after ten days he was on his way back to California, early morning. I took my time coming home from the airport. Paced around Chelsea. Did some shopping at Hobbs, walked home from South Kensington station, came home to my flat, to my roommate who was smoking rollies on the couch, watching Eastenders. I joined her in the living room, rolling filters from construction paper for our hand-rolled cigarettes. I had set up my computer to FTP a thousand photos of "shoe trends" back to L.A. for a photo-journalism assignment and it was taking forever and I hated Eastenders.

It was raining in London and my socks must have been soggy because when the BBC interrupted our afternoon soap with breaking news I had one sock on. And for the next three hours, that was how I stayed.

At first it was like slow motion, the shaky images of a single plane, sticking out of the Trade Center, smoking like some sort of nightmare. It didn't look real. It didn't feel real and being far from home I figured it couldn't be real. It didn't make sense. And then suddenly, the camera panned out as a second plane hit the towers and then chaos. Everything went from slow motion to lightspeed. The trade centers falling. The crash at the Pentagon. I would never see my family again because America would be wiped off the map. That was all I could think of. And then I remembered my brother. He was on an airplane. He would stop in New York. And then I became frantic. The flight that crashed was 93. My brother was on United 93. Or was it United 933?

*And suddenly, I can't breathe...

And so I call my parents and everyone is asleep and I keep telling them that the world is going to end and "turn on the TV and see for yourself" and all this time I am still trying to ftp photos of shoes and the rain has stopped and the city is quiet even though people are in the street, and my roommate tells me to stop crying, because this kind of thing happens all of the time in the UK, and she drags me to a pub, where I throw up in the WC because I am afraid for my brother and for my friends in New York and for the people that I love that I am afraid I will never see because the whole world is going to end for sure. The U.S. is toast and I will live the rest of my life on an island in the rain and I dropped my brother off at the airport and I told him to "have a safe flight" and I should have never fucking said that because what if he's dead, and the whole world is on fire and all I want is to be with the people who love me who I love back, and I am on the underground within hours, leaving South Kensington with my camera, on my way to Westminster because I want to feel close to God, if there is one, and if not God then the ghosts of poets who may be of comfort, the cold rock as support as I shake, tracing the words on Darwin's stone with the lens of my camera, trying to capture the moment before there is nothing left. No more days and no more moments and we all turn into dust and leaves of grass.

And so I start shooting photos of everything in view, and there are flags everywhere, British flags and Italian flags and the American flag, not yet at half-mast and I am running now, over the bridge towards the London Eye even though the Eye is closed and I am screaming because I am so far away and I can't do anything. All I can do is wait and have hope and hope is the most terrifying word because it admits that there is doubt and that one is powerless. And I realize that I AM powerless. That I am nothing and nobody and then it starts to rain again and I am writing in my notebook under the Westminster bridge with one sock on.

And then I pinch myself because ALL OF THIS, the fear, the powerlessness, the nausea is what people feel every day all over the world and I curse myself for being free when so many are not, and I pound my fists against my chest because today there was so much death and because tomorrow there will be even more and there are British flags and American flags tied together and people are singing and there are candles and I want to sing too, but there is snot in my throat and I am all alone on the bridge and my brother is in the sky and my family is a bazillion miles away and the world is ending.

But it isn't.

Not even close, not for me... a twenty-year old blonde from upper-class suburban California who has everything. EVERYTHING! and it isn't fair. It isn't fair that I am safe and the whole world is in danger. And so I get up and drag myself through the rain until I make my way to the Tate Modern, along the Thames, alone...

And the city is so quiet and people are praying and I walk until it starts to rain again, and then I take the bus home, all the way to Battersea Bridge Road, to my flat, and my roommate and the slow upload of the ftp, and I wait. I wait. I wait. I watch the news and try to make phone calls but the line is always busy, and I don't sleep for two days, even though my brother is safe in Canada, stranded there until they can fly him into LAX. Even though my friends in New York are okay, whatever that means and the world has not yet ended.

And then, all alone, seeking solace and camaraderie I wake up at 5am the morning of 9/13 and I make my way to St. Paul's cathedral for the memoriam because I really want to be there, to be one of the people they allow inside and so I wait until they open the gate and allow a few dozen people in and the gate closes in my face. "I'm sorry there is no room left," the guard says.

"But it's just me. I'm all alone."

And several moments later the guard returns and he opens the gate and he lets me inside and then he closes it again and I am brought into the cathedral and seated in the one remaining seat in the entire cathedral. All alone. One more seat and so I cry. I cry because the Queen is crying and the prime minister and several hundred people, expats, brits, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Athiests, and it feels like the entire world is inside St. Paul's and I feel like I am spying on the truth, naked and scared, the truth.

And outside the raised glass windows, hoards of people are EVERYWHERE, scattered in the streets, waiting to get in to the service and the doors have been closed and it's about to begin, and I showed up really super early because I wanted to badly to be here, I HAD TO GET IN!!!! and because I was alone, they closed the doors and then re-opened them for "one seat left", and when I take my seat the woman next to me is crying because she worked with someone that died and I am sorry and I put my hand on her leg and she grabs my hand and closes her eyes really tight and the tears are falling on her lap and my hand and then we all stand up because they are playing the national anthem and it is the first time in history that the American national anthem is being played before the British anthem here in England and I see all of the people when I stand up, and everyone is holding hands and I pray for the first time maybe ever and am so thankful to be alive and to have this moment in history and in life, and the woman next to me is smiling now and singing and she has a beautiful voice, I can tell, even though it's cracking, and I stand on my tip toes and I watch and I feel and I make a memory. ...And the service wanes and the days become shorter, and I start to sleep again, and there aren't as many people crying on the tube and the American flag moves back up it's pole and life goes pretty much back to normal.

...And pretty soon it's October and then November and then Christmas and I am back in L.A.

I haven't been back to London since I moved back to L.A. at the end of 2001. It has been almost five years. There was this HELLO magazine that I bought because there were pictures inside of the service at St. Paul's and you can see the back of my head. I have it on my desk next to a photo of two flags tied together, a photo that I took on the bridge right after the rain.

There is no end. Only Beginnings. The present is soon to become the past and the future the present. Time trades itself like stock. The train changes directions, east to west and suddenly the engine is the caboose... The end becomes the beginning becomes the end.

Moments are recycled. Weddings and funerals and the births of our children. The moments that define us, change us, change the world. Days like today. And as Liz so eloquently reminded me, days of darkness and destruction are also days of light and celebration.

And somehow we put the pieces back together and we hold hands and we do what we can, for one another and for ourselves because hope is better than hopelessness, because the human spirit is powerful, because the world is fucked up and it is never going to change and the bad guys will never go away.

And thus, neither will the good guys and that is why I try not to look back. Try not to get angry or become estranged. Loving America is difficult right now. Being proud to be an American is something I just can't do. Not yet. For so many reasons. But there are good people here. Good people everywhere. All over the world and in desperate situations, they appear, angels opening the gates of St. Paul's cathedral to find me a seat.

I love the good guys. The people. People who die for what they believe and the people who survive to tell the truth and the people who wholeheartedly live. LIVE! CAPITALIZED AND WITH MANY EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!!!!

I was not here to witness the American response to 9/11 but I did witness what was going on overseas. The I love NY shirts and Yankees hats and the National Anthem. Oh Say, can you see? Indeed. And in retrospect the fall of the World Trade Center was as hopeful as it was hopeless, a tragic and memorable afternoon when everything stopped and then restarted. A long blink and then a new kind of awareness, rain-soaked view overlooking both sides of the world, both sides of the human spirit and both sides of myself. Strength and weakness, good and evil. Endings and beginnings.

In Memoriam.


*From my journal, week of 9/11/01

Fashion (Does Not) Rocks

Two Words: Dumb Chills.

Are you kidding me, Conde Nast? Between Fashion Rocks, sucking major ass (where was the fashion, btw? And Donna Karan? Honey... Oh, no you didn't with your boobage) and Parenting Magazine being, well, you read this post, I'm hereby resigning every magazine subscription I have.

Goodbye Vogue. Goodbye New Yorker. You're all dead to me.


Men are from Mars, Women are From NotSupposedToSweatThisMuchVille

Hi. My name is GGC and I sweat at the gym. I know, I know but I don't sweat, I SWEAT.

I totally get soggy-butt when I ride the stationary bike and get all drippy on the elliptical machine. I totally make a sweatmark on the ab machine and the back machine and the hip and thigh machines. I SWEAT. But I don't sweat like a lady, I sweat like a dude.

One might think that sweating at the gym is kind of a given but I've found that since my new going-every-day plan, I have yet to meet, see, witness my fellow ass-sweaters, beside of course, the men. The men are drenched. The women always manage to workout without so much as a pit stain, picking their kids up at the daycare looking svelte and dry, straight out of a Secret Ad. I, on the other hand am this strange freakish sweat-bomb and although I'm proud of my new zeal for all things gym, I'm also a little embarrassed by my being the sweat-wet-like a turbo jet-anomaly of the (female) gym-set.

Women aren't supposed to get all sweaty and nasty. I'm pretty sure it's like an unspoken rule that everyone but me can respect. Pilates? Spinning? Yoga? All the women are dry as a daisy and I'm a flood on legs, drowning in my sad and lonely limbo, my puddle of dread with my letter L sweatband admitting to my loserdom.

I'm going to be honest, it's kind of embarrassing.

This is nothing new. This has been an always thing. Soaked hair. Soaked clothes. Sweat-circles to my waist, fogged-up eyeglasses when I'm trying to read, soggy headphones. Even in my prepubescence, I'd go work out with my friends and within moments of exercise, "Don't mind me! Ignore the pouring rain falling from my temples and please, watch your step! My ass is leaking as well."

I didn't grow out of it and fear that it may be getting worse in my old-age. Pretty soon, I'll have to ride around in one of those electric chairs in order to stay dry when POWER-shopping on the boulevard. I'll have to wear a towel on my head in the stretch room as not to soak the mats. I'll be wearing a bathingsuit on the bike like the fish out of water I am, swimming my sorrows away...


The American Obesity Epidemic: Doggy Version

My dogs have suddenly become fat. They're relatively active so it isn't that. They eat healthy, organic dogfood so it isn't that either. Hmmmmm, I wonder what it could be. OH RIGHT! It's because Archer throws his breakfast, lunch and dinner to the dogs whenever I turn my head. He even calls for them "Cooooooper. Zaaaaaaaadie.... I HAVE EGGY FOR YOU!" except it sounds more like "EhEh. Eh, Ehhhhhh. Ooooooh. Dit" and then the dogs come a running. He sneaks them scraps under the table and sometimes, too lazy to be sneaky, throws mini-sandwiches in their salivating faces.

Cooper, my boxer is 100 pounds to begin with so it's not like this extra weight is showing so much but my Boston? Ha! She has become pig-like. A waddling fatty-pants who can barely keep the pace on a walk.

A son who throws food and laughs? Two dogs that gobble up all the floor-casualties? My family's falling apart.

So I have decided to put the doogs on a diet. No more dog food. I know. It sounds cruel but it seems that 5 meals a day for a dog isn't healthy eating and although I love to spoil my babes, I have to be straight with them.

"My dear dogs. You have an eating problem." I sat down with them over (my) lunch and discussed the alternatives.

"You can either A. Eat your own food and leave Archer to clean up his own mess (heh). or you can B. Eat all of Archer's scraps and skip your breakfast and dinner."

Of course the dogs preferred to eat eggs, chicken breast and string cheese over dry dogfood so I'm testing the dog-diet waters and seeing of my little experiment will work.

Zades has about 650 lbs she needs to drop by Bikini season (next summer) and Cooper could lose that spare tire. (His six pack is NOT what it used to be.) See the difference in Zadie's physique?

I went on the google rampage to see if personal trainers exist for dogs in Los Angeles because I figured dog-trainers exist so why not dog-fitness-trainers? I mean, every other block boasts a pet psychic so wouldn't it make sense for there to be an L.A. Fitness for dogs? We have Doggy Daycare, Doggy Hotels (complete with 24 hour Animal Planet rocking TV's and Massage... But no Doggy Treadmills. No Dog Paddle pools. Wait! They do have Hydrotherapy. Does that count?) and even something called a "Poop Butler." (In the OC, no less.) but no "dog gyms."

DUDES! Not that I would actually SEND my dogs to the freaking gym! I'm not THAT insane but it made me wonder-- with so many new parents fluttering about the Americas and beyond, parents with once pampered pets, how many of us/you are struggling with the same PET-ISSUES? How many of our once fit/healthy pets have become a little on the chunky side?

With Archer's meals going to the dogs time and time again, not to mention the lack of attention the dogs get these days compared to the pre-baby "good ol' days." Could this over-eating have to do with depression? Oh God! They're depressed and overweight and it's all my fault. Send in the Animal Cops. I so deserve it.


I Need Your Help.

(Updated below)

How do I discipline a child who laughs when I get angry? I say "NO!" He laughs. I say "BAD" and he bursts into hysterics and throws legos at my face. I say "ARCHER! NO! BAD!" and he giggles, waves and makes silly faces

I feel like maybe he thinks "NO" = "YES." HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?

Please for the love of G, I know many of you are experienced parents who have survived toddlerdom... PLEASE. I am your student. Enlighten me, professors and professoras.

Thank you.


Lunchtime Update: I currently have Archer in "time out" for throwing cheese at me. He's facing the wall in his high chair, playing with his hair and singing. Timeout seems to be playtime somehow. Is he tricking me or is he a masochist? I'm waiting for him to react but, um... "BA! BA! BA!" is his happy noise.

Pee Pee Haiku/ Happy Birthday Dad

I know. I know. Poo-poo Haiku has such a better "ring" to it but my recent experience with getting peed on in the shower inspired the following verse:

My Golden Arches

Showers with Mommy!
Ha! I peed on your shoulder.
Squirt gun time. Aim! Fire!

Your Golden Arches

Dude. Don't pee on me.
Even when in the shower
It's uncomfortable.

As always, feel free to express your own pee-ativity in the comments. I'm sure (especially if you have a son) that you have been peed on all sorts of times in all sorts of interesting ways! Please share. Awesome!


I also would like to wish my Dad a very happy birthday. I worship you, dude and I'm sorry if I ever peed on your when I was younger. (It totally sucks, doesn't it?)

I digress... Have a wonderful day and year and always. Thank you for being such an amazing father to me and grandfather to Archer. I am in awe of you, always. BFF.

Keep rapping.. Soma!

Love you x infinity googolplex.


Rebecca & Archer

GGC Motivation

Thanks to Kristen for the upload link. Create your own motivational masterpiece HERE*!


*Warning: MAJOR work-distraction.

Dear Parenting Magazine Fashion Consultants, WTF ARE YOU THINKING!???

I am somehow the recipient of an accidental lifetime subscription to your magazine. THANKS A LOT. I have never paid for the thing and still it comes, every month, bombarding me with boredom and upsetting fashion statements. This month however, you magazine went too far. WAY TOO far. Please find below "after" photo of one of your "real mom models."

Call me shallow, but this "after shot" almost made me throw up. No joke. I literally became epileptic when I opened up to your "makeover" and saw the horror that is your idea of "styling."

Please study the following photo yourself and remember you paid a "stylist" to "style" a mother who needed "help" and this was what you came up with? A school marm on crack?

Behold for Fall, I present: Frump-a-leupagus... The look of the season for Mom's with no taste!

I have blogged about my disdain for the whole "I'm a Mom so I should dress like one!" phenomenon. There is nothing wrong with a woman with style AND kids and yet, somehow in the past few decades there has become a definite mom-wardrobe. Khaki pants, white OR black tee. Sometimes tube socks and sweatpants. Lee jeans and button downs. No offense if you dig Lee jeans and tube socks, I'm just saying, NOT EVERYONE DOES.

This is why I do not read parenting magazines and refuse to subscribe to what I like to call, "Mini-Van-Couture." Just because I am a parent does not mean I need to dress like one, walk like one, talk like one, hang with them and feel self conscious if I wear lipstick, heels and a bag that isn't some tweed disaster from Talbots.

Because seriously? Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I put on a sundress with leggings and kitten heels and a pageboy cap and a thousand necklaces and I do the fucking dishes. Yeah, you heard me. Sometimes I wear my Dolce and Gabanna pinstripe pants to Trader Joes. Sometimes I read Vogue on the treadmill and listen to The Misfits on my IPOD. Sometimes I don't want to look like a mom. And always I don't want to be represented by a magazine whose idea of a makeover is positively embarrassing.

This is the All American Mom, you say?

Ah, yes, The All American Mom. She's so busy cooking meatloaf she forgets to have any style at all! BUT THANK YOU PARENTING MAGAZINE! You have been a lifesaver with your tips! Now thanks to you I can dress like a "hip" mama and STILL have dinner ready by 7:00!

HELLLLLOOOO? Am I the only person pissed off? Like I have said in the past, "A hip mother doesn't use words like "hip.""

And just because knit sweaters and skinny belts are big for Fall, doesn't mean you have to dress us up in the D versions of said items. Just because we are Moms does not mean we lost our ability to sense fashion disaster. Just because we're mothers, doesn't mean we want to look like every other "mother" in our ticky-tacky towns.

Guess what? The higher the pant, the better the parent!

I'm extremely fed up with so-called "mom-fashion" which is one of the reasons I am proud to contribute to Cool Mom Picks and DEVASTATED by magazines like Parenting who assume all mothers have no fashion taste, sense and would HONESTLY wear a sea-green sweater from JCPenny with a pair of moccasin boots from FOUR seasons ago.

I don't care about your focus groups and your marketing statistics and your readership. You're stale and a bore and your stereotype of mothers and motherhood is dated and a little disgusting.

If you ask me? YOU'RE the one who needs a makeover. BAD.

Yes, my panties are in a bunch and no, they are not Hanes her Way, full coverage briefs with the little pink-hearted elastic. In fact, sometimes I don't even wear underwear. Put that in your Parenting pipe and smoke it.


GGC's Five Weekend Recs:

1. Book: Sippy Cups are not for Chardonnay: Written by my new friend and fellow Mama-blogger, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, this book is so much fun it's not even fair. If you are not already a fan of her blog, go check-it out and fall in lurve, and if you haven't a copy of her book go buy one. It's a kick.

2. Cause: Momready Hurricane Clearinghouse: The travesty in New Orleans is far from over and although it's quite easy to forget that there are still THOUSANDS of people in great need of help, it's also quite easy to tune in and lend a hand if you are able. The Clearinghouse is basically a place for Katrina victims to list items they are desperately in need of so people like us can contact them personally and send what we can.

Perhaps you have some spare art supplies for evacuee, Matjames Metson?:
my name is matjames.i was put here in los angeles 16 days after katrina.i would like to ask for any art supplies so i can make art again.i also never learned how to drive a car but need a job.a job i can get to by metro.i live in korea town.the rent is really high.there isnt any where for my dogs to play.we are tired of being shut ins.i guess any help of any kind would be really wonderfull.viva new orleans!
thank you all for the help.your pal matjames.artist.
If you have any questions or comments you can contact Elisa or Yvonna at Katrina@momready.com. See all listings here and THANK YOU in advance.

3. Film: F is for Fake: Orson Welles's visual essay about fakes and fakery (hence the title.) A wonderful, insightful, quirky film involving fabulous characters and Wellesian twists. I have always been intrigued with lies, liars and the facts about fiction, after all, who is a greater liar than a writer? Take for instance this blog. Fiction or fact? Maybe I don't have a child. Maybe I'm really a man. I mean... right?

Rent it here on Netflix.

4. Event: Sal Glynn, Author, Editor, Mentor extraordinaire @ The Learning Annex in Los Angeles & San Francisco.

Sal edited my manuscript and is one of the finest editors and human beings I have ever known. He is my hero of all heroes and one day I will try to do him justice by blogging about his fabulousness. His brilliant book," The Dog Walked Down the Street: Requested and uncalled-for advice from a book midwife" is the only book about publishing you will ever need. It's wonderful and about to hit shelves so keep your eyes peeled or buy your advance copy here.

If by chance you do live in Los Angeles (Sept. 11th: See Info Here) or San Francisco (September 21st: See Info Here) and you're either working on a manuscript or wanting to, you should most def come check him out. (I'll be front row center waving my sign. Go Sal!)

5. Revenge: Sending your husband to buy you tampons. Haha, sucka!

Have a great holiday weekend, folks and foos!


I Do Not Like Green Tea and Spam

I have a two part question:

Why is it that I drink green tea every day and still, I cannot learn to love it? And why is it that I'm still getting porn spam from the job I worked two years ago?

First off, I would like to talk about life without coffee. Have you ever started your period at the gym while wearing white? Have you ever accidentally farted on a date? Have you ever gotten caught picking your nose at a stoplight by Ben Affleck? Because add all of that shit up and it's STILL NOT AS BAD as life without coffee.

I know, I know. There's decaf. Decaf coffee. Hmmm... Something wrong with decaf and coffee in the same sentence, like non-alcoholic beer. Um, WHO DRINKS IT? Not me. I want results from my beverages. Alcohol? I don't have to be flash-Mack trucks-out-the-sunroof-wasted to enjoy a stiff* one. Just a buzz is fine, but I need AT LEAST some *tingling* otherwise what the hell's the point? And coffee? If it can't wake me up and make me feel like a chipper smiley-face, then it has no place in my body. Whatsoever.

Maybe the problem is that I know green tea is good for me and for some reason THAT'S really annoying. I am forced to be even more anal about my eating. I am a permanent grump on wheels with my green salad and my green juice and green sensibilities and my green frigging tea. Gah!

Secondly, I may have to retire my beloved gmail account (which I have always used for work purposes) which is sad because I got in there early and was able to get myname@gmail dot com which is always awesome and exciting. Not awesome and/or exciting are the over 2,000 spam emails I get daily. Yes- DAILY from very "physical" and sometimes frightening websites. I will not go into graphic detail but the words "fist" and "donkey" are popular names for attached jpegs.

Before you get all "ewww! GGC is a perv with a porn addiction," (for the record I have NO PROBLEM with pornography and even enjoy it from time to time) lemme explain: I wrote copy for an adult website while I was pregnant and through Archer's first four months.

The story is kind of funny actually because I applied for the job online "duh" and was perhaps hired based on an essay I wrote for a friend's magazine in which I used the word "fuck" and "sex" quite a few times. When I went in for the interview I was five months pregnant and was very creative with my fashion in order to hide my "with child-ness" in case you know, a bunch of porn dudes weren't so keen on making a pregnant chick their head* copy editor. I wrote for the website for 6 months. I interviewed "adult models" while breastfeeding and typed up "sexy" copy while hooked up to the Medela Pump-Master 5000. Yes, that's right. I wrote about "firm tits and ass" whilst being milked like a cow by a fucking machine. HIGH FIVE!

The job was awesome and my boss was way cool and I got to chat up some brilliant young women, including (my personal favorite) "Kitty" who when I asked her what she thought was sexy, replied, after a long breathy pause, "Vegetables. I have always found vegetables sexy." Um. WTF? Vegetables? Turns out she was a vegan and a green tea drinker. Of course she was. Figures.

Another one of my favorite interviews includes the following exchange:

Me: What is your biggest regret? (I know, I was getting DEEP*, dudes.)

Bobbi: Probably that I didn't start writing my dreams down until recently.

Me: Ouch. That's gotta be tough. Are you writing them down now?

Bobbi: Every night!

Me: So tell me, Bobbi? What's the very last dream you had?

Bobbi: Um. (Silence) Um.... (More silence followed by tapping) I actually don't remember...

So, yeah. The job was pretty sweet. I learned so much and really got to grow as a serious journalist. Screw war-coverage. I was in the trenches* and I was sorry to see the job go, truth be told. (Turns out no one READS the words on an adult site. Psh, whatever.) I was NOT sorry, however, to see the emails go. All those pesky forwards were getting a little exhausting.

And guess what? They still are because they never WENT AWAY. The internet is some sort of genius, I guess, because even after my email address was deleted from "adult website" server, my "personal address" is still being hit, HARD.*

And after I recently sent several query emails for editorial work through my gmail account, I am afraid I will never know if an editor wants to work with me. I fear that important emails are getting lost in my warped gmail e-abyss, overlooked between emails from Angie Asscrack and Randi Roadhead and I will NEVER write in this town again. *Sniff* Or any town. For money. Money to buy GREEN TEABAGS* for the rest of my days. *Double Sniff*

You said it, comic Archer. You said it.


*no pun(s) intended