Booger Me This

The following conversation took place minutes ago:

"Hey Bec! Get your ass over here, woman!"

"I'm checking my email. Hold on."

"No. Trust me. You're going to want to come here right now."

"Why? Is Archer doing something cute?"

"Nope. Even better. Hurry!"

So I hurried down the hall where my husband was sprawled across the floor beside a dancing Archer.

"Come closer. Look what I just picked."

So I peered into Hal's hand at the biggest most giantist booger I have ever seen.

"HURRY UP and get your camera out! You have to take a photo of this!"

"No! I'm not taking a photo of Archer's booger. How old are you? Five?"

"Yes! I'm fucking five! Now get your camera, woman."

So I went and got my camera and I took a photo* of Archer's gigantic booger. And for whatever twisted reason, felt an indescribable sense of pride and accomplishment.

"Wow. It looks even bigger in the photo..."

Shhhh... Do you hear that? That's the sound of my brain deflating like a balloon.


*Photo can and will be emailed at your request.

Crazy Model-ish Kids

His blood runs cold
His memory has just been sold

His angel is the
Angel is the centerfold.

Archer's GF hits the big time this week with Cover Girl status:

Like mother like daughter.


A Week in Review

It's amazing what stepping away from the ol' blog for a week will do. I had to practically tie my hands behind my back so I wouldn't haphazardly concoct posts about egg nog or the ease of gift-giving as a parent. (Just frame 10x 8x10 photos of your baby and POOF! Instant awesome!)

I did manage a couple posts on Babble in the last week. Because it's a gig and I couldn't exactly unplug all the way now could I? Sooooo, if you haven't read and are interested:

- It's a Holiday in California Where the People Dress in Shorts is about spending holidays with loved ones, even if it means heatwaves and swimming pools for Christmas.

- A Heartbreaking Closet of Staggering Teensy-ness is about fishing for hand-me-downs for my favorite new arrival, baby Zach, and getting all nostalgic and shit because Archer is not a boy, not yet a manchild. And sometimes it's hard to come to terms with infancy being but a memory. (Don't even try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.)

I do realize that I said I would stay away from GGC for an entire week but I'm sorry. I cannot. Maybe it's just me, but I cannot so much as experience a moment without wanting to write about it. And sometimes when I step away and really take a look at myself I realize what a curse this blogging thing has been. Because. I. Just. Can't. Stop.

Then again, I have always written about everything-- journals and diaries and files full of ideas and stories and "posts" so I guess if I wasn't blogging here, I would be writing somewhere else. In mechanical pencil. On paper. For my eyes only. Which I miss. But like any other insecure person, I need affirmation. I need to feel like I'm worth something and here, in this box on my computer screen, I really do.

This post set off to be a week in review because I have so much I want to say about Archer on Christmas morning and how even though we have decided to raise him Jewish, it makes me so happy to see him dance around the Christmas Tree and tear open the wrapping paper in his pajamas Christmas morning. Because even if we won't have Christmas at home, I am grateful that my childhood memories can overlap with his.

And even though my husband is so very anti. Anti-holiday. Anti-comsumerism. Anti- Christmas tree, I think deep down he might just like coming down here, to my parent's house, where everything is trimmed with lights and gingerbread homes come complete with shark-infested-pools, and the music is always on and cheesy as hell, and there is dancing.

I'm not going to lie, marriage can at times be a mighty shit-sling-fest but somewhere in the muck there is joy and laughter and a whole lotta love'n. And it makes the shit-storms and the financial turmoil and intellectual differences seem insignificant. And the "together forever" thing less scary.

My husband challenges me daily. He's my biggest critic and also, I am realizing, my greatest supporter. It's crazy how sometimes I feel we barely know each other and other times, like now, I feel I truly met my match. Someone insane and ruthless and judgmental as all hell and wonderful who likes to dance. And sing. And yell at people who can't drive. Who doesn't even flinch when I accidentally Dutch-oven him at night which I appreciate. (Sorry. but I just don't get those couples who keep their bodily functions to themselves. Where's the fun in that? What's the point of getting married if you can't talk about poop and fart in front of each other? I mean, the dude watched me give birth. It doesn't get any more intimate than that. Duh!)

I think I might have burned as many calories as I consumed this last week laughing my ass off. Between my husband and my father I'm drowning in one-liners and silliness. This is why life is good. This is why I love being married. And having an amazing family to come home to. This is why I am so lucky to be surrounded by people that I love.

A is for awesome!*

Hope you had a wonderful holiday. We're back in business, ladies and gents. Now the countdown to New Years. (I guess I totally lied about the "see you next year!" It was fun saying so, at least.)

But seriously, now. I'll see y'all next year.



*Archer's wardrobe c/o CMP and Woopsie Baby.

Read Between the Liner Notes: Happy New Year!

If you know me at all you will know I'm God-awful at holiday cards and pretty much anything that requires planning ahead. (Martha Stewart would burn me at the stake.) I'm far from crafty and always late. (The one time I sent Christmas cards I didn't mail them until mid-January. Di-sas-ter. No?) Anyway, here is my ghetto attempt at creating a "card" for all of you, my people:


Health and Happiness! May 2007 be an awesome-fest of joy and love and treasures.

Thank you for reading and s
ee you next year!*

GGC & Archer Sage, Pirate of the Snails

I will be unplugging for the next week, so if you wish to read more check out Straight From the Bottle. My weekly archive is as followed:

Nannies Get All the Girls-- This time when asked if I was the nanny, I lied and said I was.
Don't Hate me Because I'm (Not) Dutiful -- Slacker Mom or Renegade Parent? You decide.
The Science of Sleep -- Let's just say I haven't really been getting much sleep lately.

*GOD! Why is that STILL so fun to say?

Male Bonding

I have to take a moment to direct all of you to the one of the finest posts by one of my favorite bloggers, Danny at Dad Gone Mad.

Today Danny wrote the most heart-wrenchingly silly post about his son, and public urinals and bare bottoms, so I had to take a moment to pass it on. There is something so heart-wrenching about the moments shared between little boys and their big brothers. When I read this post, I thought, "Life is good. People are good."

I've never been a fan of the "frat boy" but today, I want to hug the shit out of ever Alpha Beta Pheta Theta Zeta that exists. Powerful writing. Priceless moments. Where blogging and parenthood collide.

Bravo, Danny.


Half Mother, Half Child

While in Boulder last month, I picked up a few little gifts for Archer: little plastic animals that expand and grow into HUGE plastic animals when you put them under water. Because I knew he would really appreciate them. I knew he would freak the fuck out because they were just so cool. Except that while digging through my wallet for my credit card, I realized that really I was buying them for me. That Archer wouldn't care about such objects. But I did. I couldn't wait to get home so I could put the plastic tiger in a bowl and watch it expand up to 600 times its original size.

I was embarassed to admit it so I told no one. I paid the man in the Rob Zombie t-shirt, put the toys in my pocket and went on my way.

This has happened more than I care to admit. Something catches my eye. A plastic Dragon or a little toy train. Something charming and quirky. Something I would have loved as a child. And time after time, I bring home treasures that go untouched, unloved, unnoticed.

And a part of me takes it personally. The little girl in me, perhaps, who misses playing with toys. Barbies and Lincoln Logs and little plastic animals my mother bought me at the Zoo. Madame Alexander dolls and toy soldiers.

I am convinced that half if not all of the toys and gifts and items we bring home to our children are just things we wish we could have had when we were little. I would have loved this! I find myself saying. Maybe Archer will too!

I'm pretty sure that consumer holidays are a success because shoppers end up buying all of the stuff they always wanted. I don't think I'm the only parent who brings toys home to her child, only to play with them in secret while he's napping. I've spent hours working on a single Lego-house, only to fight back tears when Archer knocks it down with one roundhouse kick. NoooOOOO! That was MY house! Eh!

Sometimes I go overboard and I have to stop myself. Because ant farms and sea-monkeys and pet rats are MY FAVORITE. But they will have to wait for when Archer's older. Even though, I beg myself for them. Please can I buy a butterfly habitat? Pretty please?

Sure, adult toys are fun-- electronics and all of the wonderful gidgets and gadgets. But there is nothing like ripping the plastic off of a brand new set of matchbox cars. There is nothing like a red wagon with a big bow tied around the handle. Or a set of plastic jungle animals that expand up to 600 times their original size under water.


Of Lost Causes Found

St. Jude Hospital was named after the patron saint of lost causes, because in many cases, children and their parents are turned away from treatment and hospitalization with little hope for recovery. Why? Sometimes insurance doesn't cover what it should. Often docs do not see their patients beyond the statistics. Because numbers don't lie. Because the outlook is not good. Sometimes a family cannot afford proper care and at St. Jude none of that matters. Its doors are open to everyone-- A Mecca of hope and optimism.

Enter the beautiful and wise-beyond-her-years, Scarlett. She's 19-years-old and spent the majority of her teenage years living in the Cancer ward at St. Jude Hospital. For the past five years Scarlett has battled Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

We almost lost Scar several months ago. Her counts were terribly low and her cancer was getting worse. An aggressive chemotherapy helped. And then she relapsed again. More radiation. More chemo. But faith is a superhuman power. Hope is a prerequisite for those will illness and their families. The Doctors at St. Jude understand that. They are sensitive and kind and helpful. They look beyond statistics. They hold hands. They believe.

Today Scarlett is kicking ass. She's in remission. Her hair is growing back. She is one of the finest examples of strength and grace. She has for the past year been one of the lights of my life. An inspiration. A fucking rock star. One of the most beautiful souls I have ever known. Certainly, the silliest:

For Christmas/Hanukkah this year, Scarlett made me a keepsake box and filled it with snow. It was the artificial kind, the stuff that doesn't melt so I could have snow year round. Because she knew. One of the finest gifts I have ever received from one of the greatest friends I have ever had.

On behalf of Scarlett and the amazing doctors and children at St. Jude Hospital, I am asking you, if it's possible, to donate what you can to an amazing place. A true lifesaver. If you prefer, you can do some last minute shopping at the St. Jude gift store, where all proceeds go to children like Scarlett, bringing light and hope to families year round.

Because everyone deserves a second chance. And a third. Because people like Scarlett need to walk among us in the flesh, surviving and thriving and making the world a more livable place. A more lovable place.

Donate money to St. Jude today, for my good friend, Scarlett and for all of the children on the road to recovery.

...And for all lost causes, found.


Mother of All Assholes: A Scene

Fade In

INT: LAST WEEK; Beneath the flashing lights of the E! Holiday Christmas party.

GGC sees a familiar face across the bar. She squints and tries to remember how/why she knows the attractive young woman. For the life of her she cannot remember where they have met. Through business? Pleasure? Were they old friends? She waves, anyway.

The MYSTERIOUS YET FAMILIAR GIRL waves back and approaches her, drink in hand.

Hey Rebecca(GGC)! Cheers!

Mysterious yet familiar girl clinks her plastic cup with GGC. GGC tries not to look confused.

It's good to see you I like your dress.

Thank you. So how have you been?

Great. You know, Archer and stuff... Life. Heh. And what about you?

You don't recognize me, do you?

I'm so sorry! I know the face, I just don't, um. WELL...I'm drunk.

I'm your babysitter. I babysit Archer.

Did I say I was drunk? I'm actually wasted. Trashed! Out-of-my-mind hammered.

But the truth was, GGC was dead sober. She bought the MYFG/BABYSITTER a free drink and pretended to pass out in the garnish tray.

I am a terrible mother. The worst. Just awful. I leave my child's life in the hands of people I can't even recognize in public. Shoot me, now. Like a lame horse. OH GAWD, just shoot me now...

Fade Out


Weekend Update, GGC Style

I. First of all, I want to give a shout-out to my boy, Chag at Cynical Dad, who masterminded the new GGC design. He has helped with all my tech endeavors and I am grateful for his kindness and genius and friendship. The man is high quality. Fist to the chest, duder.

II. Now for the boring stuff... Are any of you having any trouble with the new format? I have a Mac and Chag represents the PC with pride and we have both tested all browsers (Explorer, Firefox, Safari...) and it looks good on our systems BUT I've heard from certain readers (i.e. my parents) that the format is a little funky on their computers. Anyone else having trouble or have my parents just been smoking a little more of the crack than usual? Let me know.

III. If you are at all interested, I'll be posting links to my Straight From the Bottle posts every week in little tiny font at the bottom of my weekend post. This will make it seem less obvious that I am trying to push like a street-pimp. If this is perceived as lame/tacky, please don't tell me. I prefer to be lied to. It makes me feel more secure.

Pacify Me: Sometimes a binky and a blankie are all it takes...
Viva Las Life Change: Shotgun weddings. Jesus broaches. Growing up.
Daycare Le Peu: Because you hate when your baby smells like another woman (especially one who wears cheap perfume).
Childproofing for Mummies: If you are interested in how to childproof your house with maxi-pads and thongs.


Life and Death

I just got back from a funeral. Friend from back in the day. She was only twenty-seven.

For fifteen years, this has been the longest stretch of time I haven't been to a funeral. One whole year. Starting Sophomore year of Highschool I averaged about five (funerals) a year. All people my age or younger. All friends. Suicide. Pediatric disease. Car accident. Drug overdose. Time and time again. I've lost one Grandfather and two Great Grandmothers. The rest have been friends.

I have much to say about death. In fact, I am often consumed by the idea that we are going to die. Morbid? I resent that. To me, the constant reminder of our limits on earth make me want to press mine. Instead of hold back.

I have learned to be strong. To keep my composure when I hear of death. I don't want anyone to see me cry. They cannot know that I'm in pain.

I wonder how obvious it is that I am so fucking full of shit.

Where I am strong at any other time, my armor falls off at funerals. I lose it. I cannot breathe. Sometimes, in a church or funeral home, holding the hands of friends and loved-ones, it feels good to break down. To collapse. To let myself cry. Be afraid. Confused. Angry. Ask questions. Pray to whatever higher power exists. Because I'm allowed to cry. I'm allowed to break down.

The service was beautiful. Her brothers are my friends. Amazing family. I cannot bear to look a mother in the eyes after losing a child. Not anymore. And yet, she was able to look into mine. A mother is capable of carrying on with the weight of the world on her shoulders. Laughing in the rain. Comforting those who came to comfort her. The power...

I have always wondered why death is so scary, besides for the obvious reasons- it's an unknown. No one knows for sure what happens. The end? Is that all there is, my friend? We are here one day and gone the next, but beside that, why is death so scary?

I believe that our mutual fear of death means something much more profound. Affirming, even. It means, although sometimes we forget or may not know, we are happy to be alive. We bitch and moan and rant and rave and throw tantrums and hate ourselves and "loathe our lives" and wish for this and that and if only I could lose ten pounds. If only we could afford that mortgage. If only I could fit in.

But at the end of the day, we want to be here. We want to make it. Make something. Make it better.

As the James Kim tragedy has proven, an entire country can mourn the death of a stranger. A fellow parent. Father. Millions of people can relate to a man lost in the wilderness. Someone, lost. Someone who had to be found. And that brings people together. From all worlds, and all sides of the tracks. And without knowing, suddenly we are all holding hands. No man (or woman) is an island.

Millions of people can relate to losing a friend. A sister. A child. And so through death, we find the light in those we love, and in ourselves. Through death we hold hands on stained pews, even when we don't know the people sitting next to us. It doesn't matter. I know how you feel. So do I. We can relate to one another in silence. With our eyes closed and the stench of tears we're either trying to hold back or let go of.

We say our farewells and leave the church. We throw roses on the casket. We all join hands. We hold on. To each other. To ourselves. To the chair. We write songs and letters and cook meals and cry in one another's arms. We say the things we should have said yesterday. We do the things that might have slipped our minds before.

As artists and writers and working people, knowing we will die is our biggest motivation to keep working. Harder, faster. Quick, strive for perfection before the clock stops. And if I die before I wake...

Then I don't know. I have no idea.

I do know that as one life slips away far too early a new one arrives in its place, bringing with it restored hope, faith and the realization that humanity is capable of the most generous, wondrous, miraculous things. That love is all around. And that no one dies in vain. No one leaves the world without leaving something behind.


Hanukkah Comes Early

My super-duper, very-special in-laws gave Archer one of the finest gifts of all time for Hanukkah:

...Our own Pirate of the Snails finally has a back-pack in his name!

The backpack was full of pirate accessories, including an eye-patch. And what pirate is complete without a parrot? (We named her/him Bertha/o.)

Not only that but my MIL created the most amazing scrapbook of Archer's first year. Photos did not do it justice because it's pretty much the most perfect thing ever. So full of love my heart exploded. Twice. Thank you.

Hanukkah Harry, eat your heart out, dude.


Babble is My Co-Pilot

Today/night is Babble launch-day/night which means I'm once again, shamefully plugging because I'm nervous and excited and when I get nervous and excited I talk really fast and pace and click refresh like a mofo.

Between the launch and the BMC baby watch, (as of right now, no word on baby Zach...yet!) I'm a complete lunatic up in here. Update! Baby Zach has arrived! Born December 12th @ 6:46, weighing in at 8 pounds, 2 oz. Mazel Tov, BMC Fam!

Because I didn't really get the chance (nor did I have the knowledge to elaborate) the 411 is as follows: is, and I quote, "for the new, urban parent." Citymamas and papas from around the country spilling the beans about parenting in metropolisisisisis.

I'm one of three narrative bloggers (Representing LA, ma'peeps!) Also am in company of some of the best and brightest mama-dada bloggers on the web, who make up "Stroller Derby" a Blogging Baby of sorts with a bit more bite/swear words/uncensored content. (Get ready to shit your pants, laughing, people.)

Stroller Derby contributors include MetroDad, CityMama, Dad Gone Mad, Dutch from Sweet Juniper, Alisyn from Salad Days Chronicles, Childbearing Hipster, and appropriately enough, the blog-boss-man, The Zero Boss.

Raw advice? Check. Memoirs of band, Mates of State on the road with a toddler in tow? Check. An Editor-in-Chief with chops? Check. Cynical columnists ? Check, baby. Check, baby. 1-2-3-4. Check, baby. Check, baby 1-2-3...

P.S. I'll still be blogging here, regularly. I'll just be sleeping less.

Without further ado: Straight From the Bottle!


Talking? Please Shut-Up.

Previously, the "issue" was Archer's walking late and now, it seems everyone has an opinion on the fact that Archer is in no hurry to "use his words"/speak English. (He can speak Mandarin fluently, btw.) Our pediatrician suggested that if he still isn't speaking in the next couple of months to "take him to someone."

To someone.

Someone who specializes in toddler gibberish?

Someone who can teach Archer that a cheerio is not a ca-ca (cracker)?

Well, thank GOD. Phew!

I can be sarcastic now. But at the time, all I kept thinking was, "Fuck you. No. Nonononono."

This is where I have a real problem with people. Especially doctors. Doctors who judge children based on text-books and month-by-month guides. Who know nothing of the children they treat. (How could they? They have thousands of patients. Who has the time?) Doctors who pass out pie graphs and write-up prescriptions and send children to "specialists" and then gag them with pills to take the edge off. Doctors who need notes to remember names and give immunization without explanation. Even when asked.

When did we need so many specialists? Doctors who run us around like a High School track team?

Clearly Archer is a child who takes his sweet time. He was in no rush to walk and quite possibly crawled miles at a time.

And now?

"Does he talk?"

"Not really. He can say Cracker, though. And 'eh' means no."

"Oh. How old is he?"

"Eighteen months."

"Well boys are slower than girls."

Becoming a parent has turned me into a somewhat of a misanthrope, mainly because so many people subscribe to by-the-book parenting, by-the-book living, by-the-Book EVERYTHING. Bo-ring. Fru-strating. Maddening.

I may have associated with irresponsible lunatics in my previous life but at least they lived. And days like today I miss them. All the freaks and beggars and anarchists and whores aren't all wrong in their approach. They certainly don't live their lives by any book, (besides this one.) They certainly would rather strip naked and streak down the boulevard than take a cardio-strip class at Crunch. And good for them.

But I digress, sometimes books are good. SOMETIMES. But not all the time. Not every day. And just because your week-by-week guide or "Hip Mama" instruction manual says it should be so, does not mean it will be so. Not while I'm the mommy.

The most unsettling part of being a parent are the doctors. And the books. The fucking books. And the people who talk and talk and TALK about stuff that doesn't matter. About products and books and bullshit and milestones and Jesus Christ! Where is the joy in parenting, I ask you? What about the fun? Why do they have to grow up by Tuesday? Because the book says so!

Maybe the most unsettling part of being a parent is caring. About all of this. After all, everyone is trying. Right? Hold on, lemme look it up. I'm supposed to look it up.

Remember that part in Good Will Hunting where the guy from Harvard rattles off Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States like it's his own? In a nut shell, that's how I perceive most parents.

I have a happy child. He's healthy and in no rush to be friends with your honor student. So lay off. Lay off him and lay off me and go hide in your manuals and text books and studies and let us play. We have lego-castles to build and ponds to splash in:

Yeah, that' right. He's a kid. And he'll talk when he's ready.

Now, if only certain people would take lessons from Archer and refrain from using their words. That would be nice.


GGC Weekend Rec's

1. Beauty- Jean Paul Gaultier Bronzer for Men. When my husband was producing an all-gay talk show, he brought home tons of swag, for dudes. Lipgloss for men. Facewash for men. Lipstick for men. Etc. So for several months I wore a lot of men's makeup. (Hey! It was free, right?) The one product, though, that I will forever adore is the Jean Paul Gaultier bronzer for men. Unlike most bronzers for women, the JPG Bronzer isn't all sparkly-like, which means contrary to most women's bronzers, it looks natural. (Duh! Isn't that the point?) And it smells amazing. Well worth the price tag, this bronzer will last you between one and two years if you use to every day. Which means you can totally justify it. And HEY- If you're married to a Metro-dude you can like, totally share!

2. Gifts- Create a holiday registry, search the organized-by-age online store, support my friends at Ebeanstalk (awesome folks, they are). Ebeanstalk was created as a new way to browse toys by age and create registries. Moms from around the country rate and review toys (including yours truly.) Awesome for distant family and friends. Ch-ch-ch-check it.

To get 15% off your purchase(s) enter the following code at checkout: CC2 3U1 (make sure to include the space)

Also, 10% of sales go to Play for Pink, a charity for Breast Cancer. Be sure to select "Mother Board" at check-out.

3. Gifts Part II- Fadiddle My lovely lady friend, fellow blogger and writing-group(er) has created some of the sweetest t-shirts. Go buy ten of them for your little darling(s). Seriously, how can you resist this?

4. Books- If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow and the sequel, ...Add One More Star to the Night. Growing up these were my favorite books. Like magic, I called these books, "the books of dreams" because they seemed to mirror my own.

Pages include such helpful life solutions as:

If there is no happy ending, make one out of cookie dough.


If you lose the key, throw away the house

and my personal favorite:

If it's the last dance, dance backwards

My Nana had them at her house and every time my cousins and I came over for dinner we sat together, three little girls and read the words aloud. These were the first two books I bought when I found out I was pregnant. They're perfect gifts and no child should grow up without them.

5. For a Cause- Her Bad Auction

Her Bad Auction

Supporting HBM's darling nephew, Tanner, who has a terminal form of Muscular Dystrophy, some of the lovely blog mamas have put together an auction full of perfect-gift-giving items up for bid. From diaper bags to First Edition signed books to handmade Christmas stockings and quilts. Check out the auction here. All money will be donated to MD Canada in Tanner's name. The raffle opens this Wednesday. Thanks in advance for your support. Her Bad Auction is for one great cause.


Why I Love L.A.: REASON IV

Partying with this guy at the husband's work holiday party. Screw Simon Rex and Ryan Seacrest.

"Look! It's the guy from Borat who was naked and I saw his balls in that one scene!"

Good times, my friend. Jagshemash.


Peace, Love and Crap

Pardon my brief rant but the Common Gap ad is making me mental. Especially when he separates the word mistletoe so it says:

blah blah blah blah under the mistle
toe when i flow blah blah blah blah.

As a fellow rapper (hip-to-the-hop) I must say that my boy, Common could have really done something special with his GAP RAP.

Like for one, he could have rhymed Gap with Pap:

Smear! You hear? Have a Happy New Year.
Bringing all the peeps mad holiday cheer!

Or something about being on Santa's lap.

Ask me where I be. I be on Santa's Lap
Dreadlocks in his beard and a woolen cap.

OR! Wait for it. He could have gone with "slap" as in:

Slap the ho ho ho... don't you know, know, know.
I got a hoodie pulled up over on my fro-fro-fro

Or he could have gone all Left-Eye Lopez (RIP) on that bitch and made a statement about condom-safety and Chlamydia:

Wear your condom, kids, so you don't wake up with the clap.
Then go and give it to your girl, peace love, ass slap.
Give it to your girl. Peace, Love, No Clap!"

So in conclusion:

Dear Gap.

Please make more commercials like this.

Breaking stuff is so much more impressive than rapping hood with hood with hood. Or you can call me. I rap for free. You see. Love always, GGC.

The Santa Claus Paradox

I wasn't always a practicing Jew. (That happened after I married one.) I grew up with Santa Claus. And the Easter Bunny. And egg hunts and elves and caroling and ginger bread houses and "Twas a Night Before Christmas" read to me before bed. And letters to Santa's elves who visited every year and who I named Trixie and Dixie and sent back with Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. And then cried because I hated to see them go.

I believed in the jolly old elf until I was seven-years-old. And then that bitch Katie Assholenose made me look like a complete idiot in second grade.

"Duh, Rebecca. You idiot. Santa is your mom and dad. Psh. What a dork."

"Psh. I knew that, okay. I've known since kindergarten so there!"

I was embarrassed. And angry. But most of all I was sad because I so wanted to believe. In fact I'm pretty sure I can trace the beginning of the end of my innocence to that winter day in 1988. That was the day I started to doubt. In fairies and elves and make-believe. I banished my imaginary friends soon after and realized that maybe my stuffed animals didn't have feelings. Or voices. Or dreams.

It was heartbreaking, but I digress-- I'm glad there was a Santa, once. I only wish I could have believed a little longer. Christmas wasn't the same after that. Nothing really was.

This is not going to be a worry for us as Archer will not have a Santa Claus. We will celebrate Hanukkah in our home. We will create new traditions. And just so Archer (me) won't be able to miss out on the Christmas tree, we'll be spending Christmas at my parent's house. So he (we) will have the best of both worlds, much like I did growing up celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah. Passover and Easter.

And although there will be no Santa or Easter Bunny, there OH-SO-WILL-BE a Tooth Fairy. Because magic is important, even though it ends. Sometimes abruptly. Because believing in something that isn't real is what children do and adults if we are lucky. And yet its a tough one because essentially, it's kind of like lying to our kids and for what? The magic. The magic. Because maybe WE want to believe in something. Maybe, as adults, part of the joy in having children of our own is being able to find it again. That magic. Because it's special.

A while back one of my readers (Hi Mrs. Q!) asked that I opened up a discussion about Santa Claus in the comments of this post

Her comment read as followed:

...My sister-in-law announced years ago that she would not LIE to her children (now 7 and 9) about Santa/Tooth Fairy/Easter Bunny/Mickey Mouse at Disneyland, etc. Her thought is, that if her children can’t depend on her for the truth about these things, what is to say they will trust her on anything else? (She had a very bad experience with Santa and her parents, by the way).

Now that our man is 17 mo., and there are now many other young kids in our extended family, we're all not quite sure how to deal with our niece and nephew who think that we are in fact LYING to our own kids and don't really care if they debunk the myth...

I’m at my wits end arguing my point, which is ultimately, as parents, we do whatever we choose and think is right, but at the same time, respect what others teach their own children. It’s called tolerance. To us, Santa is magic, and like all magic, kids eventually figure out that there's a secret behind it.



A great many of you had opinions and great points on the subject of "hiding the truth" and "where do we draw the line between lies and and make-believe."

Santa is a toughie, a perfect paradoxical symbol of youth and belief and growing up. As a parent, I have pledged to be honest with Archer. To be open with him about the world. To educate him. To hold the flashlight and to help him understand the scary and often confusing aspects of life. Reality. But at the same time, I want him to trust in his imagination. And in storytelling. And the power of belief. Of faith. Even if its ephemeral. A conundrum? I think paradox is a better word because I don't think believing in Santa opposes knowing the truth.

And on behalf of Mrs. Q, I would like to turn to all of you for your insight on the matter. Do you believe in Santa for your kids? Why or why not? Thank you in advance for your perspective.


Addendum: Do you have a subject you would like discussed? I am happy to host any relevent discussions if you have a question/concern/ are looking for guidance. Please feel free to email me at Word.

Searching for the Resemblance

Archer doesn't look like me. Or his Dad. He looks a little like his Grandpa Norm and a little like his Uncle Dave but until recently we kind of thought he was switched at birth. Or I did. Not really but a little bit.

I imagine every parent thinks so once in a while. Or at the very least, once. Especially when their child looks nothing like them.

When I was a little girl, I was the only blonde in a family of brunettes. So naturally I thought I was switched at birth. I looked nothing like my brother or sister or parents or grandparents or cousins.

"Who do you look like?"

"No one. I'm adopted."

Typical teenage attitude except a part of me believed it to be true. Everyone else in the family went together. And I felt like the "blonde sheep" in a family of straight-edge, straight-laced brunettes. Needless to say I had identity issues.

When I was pregnant I wondered who Archer would look like. Would he have green eyes like me? Or his Dad's pouty lips? Would his laugh be giggly like mine or throaty like his father's?

When people meet Archer they always ask, "who does he look like?"

And I usually shrug. "I don't know. Do you think he looks at all like me?"

"Um. Not really... "


"I mean, YEAH! Sure he does!"

"He does? Here, let me show you his feet! He has my toes EXACTLY!" Because he does have my long finger-like alien toes. And my skin. We're the same shade of pale."

I can't explain it. In fact, I am embarrassed to admit the overwhelming need to look at my child and recognize myself in him, somewhere. He is his own little person, after all. And coming from me, means simply that. He came from me. He doesn't need to have my eyes. Or my nose. Or my anything for me to know he is my child. But that doesn't mean a small part of me doesn't wish that people, upon meeting us didn't have to ask if he was mine.

I'm not the nanny, actually. I am the mother.

The other day I got a call from my mom. "Guess who Archer looks like?"


"I emailed you a photo. Go see."

And what do you know? He looks EXACTLY like my late Grandfather-- my mother's father, Louis, when he was a little boy:

The spirit of (St.) Louis is alive and well in the Arch. Same hair. Same eyes. Same expression. Same shape head. Same little hands. The resemblance is uncanny.

And a part of me is relieved. He has inherited more than just my alien toes. I only wish my Grandpa was still around to see himself in Archer, because I bet he would have liked that.


Your Christmas Trees are Making me Jealous

We don't have a Christmas tree.

We will never have a Christmas tree.

I'm okay with this. I am.

BUT. If you don't see me delurking around your Christmas-themed blog in the next few weeks its only because I'm a teensy bit jealous.

As for those of you who live locally-- if you see me delurking around neighborhood Christmas tree lots its only because I enjoy random plots of foilage in this cold-hard-town.

And no that's not mistletoe above the door, it's Hanukkah gelt. With a kosher garnish.

And those aren't stockings hanging above my faux-fireplace, either. I'm just hanging my pantyhose to dry. (Yes of COURSE I wear pantyhose. Every day.)

And no I'm not wearing a Rudolph the Reindeer sweater. Psh. It's so totally a moose. With a sunburn. And a red and green fleece.

Shut up.


Clarification: Am Not Pregnant. Do Have Morning Sickness

Just got back from Vegas. Read comments from last post. Am not pregnant. Am still exhausted. And a little bit sick. Have bruises all over my body for some reason. Had fun. A lot. Somehow thought it was a good idea to pay $80 for a stretch Hummer to take us from The Hard Rock Hotel to the Wynn which is like three blocks. Not so smart. P.S. I hate Hummers. If I can find any appropriate photos to post on flickr I will. Saw Drea De Matteo walking around with a man who was wearing a shirt that said "Drea De Matteo." Was one suit away from a Royal Straight Flush. Almost cried because of this. My hair smells like cigars. I only lost twenty dollars. And one button. Have headache. Am unable to distribute any more details as not to get into trouble. Am not pregnant. I repeat, am very much not-with-child.

So let me rephrase: Think for those of us who have-at-one-time-been-knocked-up.

And now in typical Las Vegas fashion, I will proceed to take thirteen shots of Espresso and pull another all-nighter... except this time it will be so I can finish my work.


MeMe, HeHe, Thank You

Andrea of Little Bald Doctors tagged me a couple days ago and I thought, being Friday and because I'm stressed out of my gourd for several reasons I would post a MeMe/HeHe to announce some exciting news.

So without further ado, Five (More) Facts You May or May Not Know About GGC. (Back in January we MeMe/HeHe'd the first five.)

1. I am leaving to go to Las Vegas in one hour for a weekend-long Bachelorette party for one of my oldest friends and favorite Baby's mamas. I feel like an utter and complete old-fart about it and hope I can keep up with all the ladies.

2. My brain is broken and I cannot think of something cool or unusual about myself to write about.

3. I think its because I still need to get dressed and pack my stuff and I'm still in my pajamas.

4. And also maybe because I have three major assignments due Monday and I have no idea when I will have the time to work on them. (Are there quiet coffee shops in Las Vegas?)

5. I will be blogging for's new parenting site, Babble which debuts the week of December 11th (So soon!). This is not only super-duper exciting but quite an honor as I am blogging beside several very talented authors. This will mean that I will be blogging at GGC a little less but would love LOVE for you to follow me o'er yonder. I am dying for you all to see the content/editorial/design of the site. Think for us knocked-up folk. I've been able to sneak a peek at the mock-up and want to marry the editors at Nerve for creating such a chic, savvy online magazine for the rockin'parents in the hizzouse. Stay tuned, ladies and gents. I'll be keeping you abreast with the latest. Yeehaw!

HeHe, Five (More) Facts You May or May Not Know About Archer

1. His favorite toys are tampons. He takes them out of the box, puts them into the box, takes them out. Don't forget to add Tampax to your holiday list, people. Hours of fun for the whole family!

2. He can say the word "cracker" and find a way to use it in every sentence, for example: gloahskjahdjklacrackerksjhadlkajl.

3. He has touched every sprinkler-head in the greater Hollywood area.

4. He wears his sunglasses at night. (See photo.)

5. He knows how to call me from Hal's cell phone. (Supergenius).

And now I will MeMe/HeHe/SheShe tag Mom-101 and Thalia, MotherBumper and Bumper and Mrs Chicky (and her Chicky.)

The Original Perfect Post Awards

I also would like to thank Bub & Pie and Something Blue for nominating this post for a perfect post, November. Thank you kindly, ladies. Love.

Now I have three minutes to pack and get dressed.