Where You Go'in With My Heart in Your Hand?

I got really into Jimi Hendrix in 7th grade, but only because the boy I was madly in love with got really into Jimi Hendrix in 8th grade and he was a year older than me. His sister was my best friend and whenever I was at their house and he wasn't home I'd go into his room, smell his bed sheets and peek inside his underwear drawer like a good teen-stalker-lover

One day he had a new poster on his wall. It was the poster every teenage boy who played guitar had on his wall that year-- the one of Jimi Hendrix setting fire to his guitar like some kind of devil man, his long fingers delicately raised. His face snarling.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience CD lay open. I memorized the cover and the next day after school went and bought myself a copy. Days later, I knocked on my best friend's door, after school. Her brother answered.

"She's not home," he said before pausing. "But you can come in if you'd like..."

I stepped inside, nervously.

"I was practicing something on my guitar," he said.

"Know any Jimi Hendrix?" I asked, hopeful.

"Of course! What do you want to hear?"

"What can you play?"

"I can play Hey Joe."

"Yeah, okay. That's my favorite one!"

And so he played it for me. And I watched with my heart in my throat. He was so cool. So old. And so-so totally cute ohmigawd. I swayed to the music as he repeatedly botched his chords.

"Hold on. I know this. I know this..." he said.

I didn't want the song to end. I was happy to watch him figure it out as he went. I would have sat there forever even. He probably figured as much. I hadn't blinked in minutes.

He finished the song and offered me a coke. But when he came back to the couch where I sat waiting, his hands were empty.

Instead, he kind of half-smiled before jumping on top of me and sticking is tongue down my throat. I accepted and reciprocated, no clue what I was doing. And all through my head I kept thinking, Oh my God. This is my first kiss. This is my first kiss. This is it... This is weird. Kissing is slimy... I'm being kissed!

What's crazy is that I still remember how he tasted. The slimy feel of his tongue and how after a few minutes I got the hang of it. Of kissing, which was so much messier than I thought it would be. And even perhaps more clearly, I remember how I apologized for having no boobs when he tried to feel me up and how he said "it's okay, Becca. I don't care" and how I though that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me.

I also remember the date: November 9th, 1993. I was twelve years old.

That week we made out every day after school, but he refused to let me call him my boyfriend. He wanted nothing to do with my at school either, once going so far as to push me in front of his friends.

I was crushed. Even more crushed when I realized I had to call off our make out sessions. It wasn't fair the way he was treating me the way he was at school and I knew it. But I sooooo didn't want it to end. I wanted to be next to him so bad it hurt! Even if it meant him ignoring me in front of his friends.

I cried myself to sleep for days, weeks... maybe even years. I played Hey Joe on repeat, occasionally, camping out in the bushes outside his garage, listening as he mastered a song that felt like ours.

"Where you goi'in with my heart in your hand..?" I wrote in a poem I slaved over for weeks after our make-out gone bad. I put it on his pillow and prayed he would come to his senses. Or at the very least, write me back. He never did. Instead he passed around the poem and everyone made fun of me.

It took me a good decade before I finally learned the hazards of giving the boys who broke me love-letters. And even now, hearing Hey Joe, I get this pang in my stomach. The same pang I felt at twelve-years-old, the first time I'd ever felt that kind of love. The first time I ever had a song to remind me of how pathetic I thought I was. And even now, listening to the song, there's a teenage girl inside me, still, who wonders if maybe she was right.


This post has been brought to you by Catherine and Tracey's Flashback Friday. For other flashbacks click these lovely links:

Oh the Joys
Her Bad Mother
Mrs. Flinger

Big Trouble In Little Vagina

Okay, so you guys were totally right about me needing to dump doc and find someone more kosher. Yesterday I spent approximately eight hours on the phone. After interviewing everyone I could and bestfriending one of the Health Net phone representatives I got everything figured out. At least for now.

In the words of Kristin Cavallari, me and the dicktor are "so totally dunzo."

Archer and I were able to separate our groups so although I do have to change my primary physician, Archer can stay with his pediatrician. (That rhymed!) I'm hoping the OB I chose will be the anti-dickdock. All signs are pointing to a much better situation. (He looked nice on google images. His office is within walking distance from my house and he's done a lot of really cool shit. Plus he has a reputation for having good beside manner.) Of course, I wanted a woman but was unable to find any local female docs who delivered at Cedars, which is where Archer was born and where I feel most comfortable. (I gave birth in what looked and felt like a hotel room. There's a reason Cedars is the premiere choice for celebrity childbirth.) Of course, if this new doc isn't superman, I'll ditch him, too and keep right on looking until I find "the one." Because a lady shouldn't spread her legs for anyone less than a gentleman (or gentlewoman.) Plain and simple, vagina doctors shouldn't be dicks.

And for those interested in seeing a 7 week, 3 day upside-down Red Ant looking creature. Drum roll please....

Is it not the spitting image of Hal? Totally, right?

Anyway, thanks to all of you for being my doulas dot com. So awesome that I get to spend this pregnancy with strong, supportive mothers (and fathers) and not alone.


Dickter Doctor Appointment

Today was my first prenatal doctor appointment with my old OBGYN who, I'm not particularly fond of but thanks to insurance shenanigans, kind of have to deal with.

I'm pretty laid-back when it comes to doctors. I've never switched, changed or complained. I'm the opposite of a hypochondriac. I'm anti prescription meds for the most part and believe I can cure myself from home with far better results when/if I'm sick or damaged. I haven't seen my OB since Archer was born, mainly because I hated the way he handled the birth and everything else. Some examples of why:

1. During the pushing stage of childbirth Doc told me that I was making too much noise.

"You're too loud. You don't need to be making that much noise when you push," he said to me, one of the few things I remember during Archer's birth because I wanted to kick his face off.

So, yeah, here's a man who shushed me during childbirth.

2. I said I didn't want an episiotomy. I got one anyway. And that shit took a year to heal.

3. Archer's circumcision was improperly performed after Doc boasted of his "circumcisions being the greatest in all the land." This turned into a huge dramatic horror-fest that I won't go into but you can read about here.

Plain and simple I hated this man for a good year before thinking that maybe I was just overreacting. Maybe dude was perfectly kosher and I was just being dramatic.

Regardless, after doing my research as to whether or not I was able to change OBs, I found, much to my frustration (and confusion) that changing OBs would mean changing medical groups entirely which would mean changing Archer's pediatrician who I love and want to marry. So I thought, "fuck it, I'll just deal with Dr. Dickfarm. See what happens...."

So I made an appointment with my old doc and today, showed up for my first prenatal exam.

The first thing my doctor said upon greeting me in my paper vest and socks? "You're a lot thinner this time, aren't you?"

"Actually, I'm the exact same weight I started at my last pregnancy."

"Hm. I remember you being bigger."

"Maybe because I gained 70 pounds with my last pregnancy?"

"No. I mean before."

"Oh... Kay?"

"Hmmm... Let's see. Only seven weeks pregnant? Ha, ha, ha, well aren't you eager..."


"You're only seven weeks pregnant."


"Why don't you come back in your second trimester...."

So that was it. No getting to hear the heartbeat. (My doctor LITERALLY rolled his eyes when I asked.) No nothing. Just a few condescending words about how fat he remembered me being and how premature I was to book an appointment with my doctor at only seven weeks along. Fuck, dude. My bad!

Doc referred me for blood work and an ultrasound.* The first of two he will allow me to have. (With Archer I had to go to one of those strip-mall ultrasound places because I wanted to know the sex before the birth and my doctor wouldn't refer me to a technician more than twice. That was his rule.)

Honestly, I have no idea what to do at this point. I feel sick about it, really. I want to have a good childbearing experience this time with a doctor who doesn't make me feel like an idiot at every turn. I also don't want to lose our pediatrician who I adore. So I'm caught between a Dick and a hard place.

Has anyone had any experience with this kind of situation? Am I just being hyper-sensitive? Any and all advice would be much appreciated.


*Thursday morning. Stay tuned.

It's a... New Website!

My author site is live and, thanks to Danielle Hull, designer extraordinaire, perfection. Above and beyond gorgeous. Run your mouse over icons and book-covers for fine-detailing and excerpts. Thank, thank you, thank you, Dani. It's perfect. Come visit soon so we can play piano again and hold hands. 

And speaking of good friends who live too far away, Happy Birthday, Calamity. I miss you every second and long for the good-ol-days of carriage-rides and snugglefests


This is Becoming Ridiculous

Yesterday while joking with a friend about how I can't control my crying, I burst into tears.

At first I was fine.

"All I do is cry," I laughed. "Like on my way to the coffee shop? I cried. Because I saw two girls laughing in a car and for some reason, I couldn't contain myself. "

"Wow. Really? That must be weird."

"Yeah. It is. And you know what else...? " I trailed off. I could feel the tears bubble and boil. I bit my lip, widened my eyes and... "It's just. SO. HARD! You know? Or maybe you don't know because you're a guy. You have no idea! "

And then I was sobbing. And laughing. And then that freaky cry-laugh that becomes almost demonic, hysterical, unstoppable...

"Uh... do you want a napkin or something?"

Once again, my trying to make someone laugh had resulted in making myself cry. Smooth.
Wednesday, during a photo shoot for a magazine who kindly purchased two excerpts of Rockabye, I had to duck behind a bench and then a palm tree and cry in private. Archer refused to be photographed, I missed the memo re: seasonal dress. It was storming and we were shooting outside. Under normal circumstances I would see the comedy in this kind of situation, but pregnancy has robbed me of my sense of humor and replaced it with, big-ol-pussy-syndrome. (No offense to anyone's girly bits.) After the shoot I cried all the way home until I was literally cry-heaving. I didn't even know it was possible but one CAN run out of tears.

Archer and I during happier times

Today, dehydrated from so many bouts of hysteria, I drank eighteen glasses of water. And I'm still thirsty. I have never experienced anything quite like this before. I don't PMS. I'm relatively stable at all times. Laid back. With my mind on my money, etc. Even when I was pregnant with Archer I was a rock. No symptoms whatsoever and certainly no mood-swing-hormonal-craziness. I didn't spend my days face down crying. I just went about my business, ate a bunch of ice cream until I looked like the Michelin Man (I'm hoping to be spared the wrath of nose-ate-my-face-syndrome this go around. Time will tell) and popped the occasional tum for heartburn.

I always rolled my eyes when women talked about their hormones getting the best of them during pregnancy. Ha! I guess this would be my payback: me Captain Kleenex of the United Snot of Waterworks. I'm just hoping it ends. Soon.

It does, right?

Please say, yes? Or I'll cry.

Psyche! Trick question! I'm already crying.


Building a Bridge. Getting Over It.

Screaming bloody-murder-insanity for ten minutes straight before eating dinner off the table like wild dogs = Best. Antidepressant. Ever.

Thanks, Arch.


Cry Like You Mean It

All I have done for the past two weeks is cry. My hypersensitivity is only magnified by the little things in life that move me and/or break my heart. Like the moment I ran into my old friend, a couple weeks ago. I've always been a crier, but bawling in public? Not so typical. The bad review(s) haven't helped, obviously. It's hard enough to wake up and work on something that most likely will never see the light of day, even harder when the one book that has a release date is being swatted at like a fly.

It's hard enough to press on, against the odds, to find confidence in the cracks of doubt. To get up every morning and work and hope and feel good about working, hoping... Without the added pressure of eye-rolls and name-calling.
I always hated those booths at carnivals, the ones where the guy sits on the platform over the water and for two tickets (and good aim) you can dunk him in the pool of dirty water. I never thought (until now) that it was his own damn fault for volunteering to get dunked. Instead I just felt sorry for the guy and how every time he climbed back up to where it was dry, he would get dunked again.

I do realize I've volunteered to get dunked. Rejected. Called out. I'm not supposed to care what people think but I can't help it. Especially right now when even a dirty look throws me into a tailspin. A song on the radio causes me to pull over and sob in my hands. A less than friendly phone-conversation and I'm face down on my bed, howling.

I want to blame all this on hormones. That under normal circumstances I'd be swimming in the filth of the dunk-tank, smiling. Flipping off the bullies and shrugging off the bad days, climbing back on the platform, ready to take it all on, the good and the bad. The love and the loathing. But maybe that's a cop-out. Maybe that's just me making excuses for the fact that I miss old friends. And I care what people think. And I really don't want to be nice to everybody all the time, especially those who talk a lot of game with no follow-through. And I worry about stuff even though I say to everyone, all the time "don't worry so much! Everything will work out! It always works out!"

I know, I know... I know.

I'm not usually such a sad bastard. I'm really known for being quite cheery under normal circumstances. But right about now I just want to stop pushing, and selling and pitching and faking my way though "everything's awesome! Thanks for asking!" and take a long nap. No more spinning wheels in the mud. I want to hide from the dunk-tank. I want to go through the day without having to reapply mascara.

Hey, Bec? You have black streaks all over your face."

"I do? Oh. Let me go wash my face."

Ah, well... Maybe tomorrow.


Reason #56721 Why Children and Animals Belong Together


Married Life

"Dude. Check this out. I'm already showing! Check out my belly. It's, like, sticking out."

"Nah. Your belly always sticks out like that."

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. 

"What? Did I say something wrong?"

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

"What? No! Come here. I'm sorry... It's just that... well, you don't exactly have the flattest stomach in the world..."

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp...


Thanks For the Memories, Publisher's Weekly!

Dear Publisher's Weekly Reviewer-Person,

Thanks for not reading my book but reviewing it anyway. It's funny, because I don't recall moving my family to "The Valley" but it's certainly an interesting premise! City girl goes suburban.

Oh! And I'm also pretty sure I got married before Archer was born, as there's an entire chapter devoted to my pregnant wedding but shiyat, what do I know? I'm just some puerile, awkward San Diego suburbanite who parties and then feels guilty!

Woooo! Beer bong me next!


Update: Thank you all SO much for your words of encouragement. Your comments on the PW site were above and beyond. (Bad reviews are one thing but factually inaccurate reviews? Not so awesome.) You've moved me to tears on many occasions with your comments and emails and support. Yes, I'm very hormonal but still. Thank you for being my posse.

The Field Trip

We got off the bus holding hands, Archer and his classmates in their matching tee-shirts, and we followed each other down Santa Monica Blvd, past an old Russian couple playing chess and a transvestite hooker and a homeless man kicking dirt off his shoes. We filed into the West Hollywood Fire Station, Archer yanking my arm. Come on in, they said.

"Not many kids around here," one of them said.

"We don't get many schools," another fire fighter explained.

"Because, you know, it's West Hollywood."

"Yeah," the other firefighter chimed in. "You know..."

They didn't really know what to do with us, a dozen and a half kids from two classes, all in matching tee-shirts howling to get a better look at the fire-trucks.

"Cuck!" Archer shouted. "Reeeeeed. Cuck!"

I stood quietly with the several other parents in attendance. The teachers. Archer never letting go of my hand.

Finally one of the teachers suggested a firefighter go down the fireman's pole. The firefighters agreed and one of them disappeared into the station while we all gathered around, our heads upward, watching,


Staring at....


A ten foot poster of a topless Budweiser model, clutching her bare bosom, in a thong bikini bottom (circa 1994?). Her asscheeks were a good four feet across. A good luck charm for the firefighters as they went down the pole I figured. Some "go get 'em. boys" eye-candy for the road.

"Nice poster," I blurted out. "Really solid work, guys...."

I soon realized this was not the appropriate handling of such a situation. I was calling attention to something awful. Something unexpected on a field trip for preschoolers. Looks were flashed my way. I suddenly remembered where I was.

"I mean.... What? I don't see any poster..."

I was busted. I slumped against the back of the garage and waited to be carted off to detention, before remembering that I'm the disciplinarian, now. I'm the authority. Except for some reason, unable to grasp this reality, I got the giggles. The crazy kind of church giggles you get as a kid and you can't stop...

Of course, no one was as amused as I. I gave one of the fireman a nod. He smiled awkwardly back at me. I thought about what he said, about no kids in West Hollywood. I thought about the transvestite hooker we passed and the homeless man with the dirt in the shoes and how we all held hands and no one said anything. How there are so many explicit details of city living and yet, here we were under a half-naked model in the middle of a fire station and: Outrage.

The children continued to wait, their eyes searching the giant model ass-crack for some sign of a firefighter.

Until finally, he emerged, sliding down the pole, past the giant bare-woman-ass, landing with a "ta-dah!" on the oil-stained cement. Apparently he hadn't recognized the discomfort on all (save for one) the parent's faces

We were all directed to the other side of the station after that, and eventually, we joined hands again and made our way back to the bus-stop, passing another couple of tranny-hookers, little blue tee-shirts all in a tidy line. (Madeline meets Hedwig and the Angry Inch, what a mash-up that would be!)

The bus arrived and our blue line filed aboard. Archer climbed onto my lap and we moved together, swayed, over potholes, across intersections, me clutching my baby, who I am meant to protect, cover his eyes when naked posters cross his path, or at the very least, not call attention to them. Not laugh and point like some kind of child. Like the crazy-aunt the with wild hair and the rainbow tights who can't make a good first impression with mother-types to save her life.

"Look! A naked lady, kids! Ahahahahaha!"

I'm a grown-up! I'm a grown-up! I'm a grown-up! I'm a grown-up! I'm a grown-up! I whispered against the window, combing Archer's hair with my hands. Until...

"Cock!" Archer said, pointing at a dead sock on the floor of the bus by my feet.

"Sock," I corrected.


"Okay, fine. Yes. Cock. There's a cock on the floor."

Archer nodded. "Hi, Cock!" And I chuckled quietly to myself. Screw being a grown-up! Screw being a grown up! Screw being a grown-up! Screw being a grown-up!

Because the thing about it is? Life's too comedic to keep a straight face, even if 98% the time no one else thinks it's funny.


Girl's Gone Embryo

Apparently I wasn't crying anything.



Archer Through The Lens of Another

All photos by Rachael Porter available for hire for family day-in-the-life shoots and/or professional high-fives. Go, here for contact deets.


Voted For Hillary. Rooting for Obama.

Something happened to me tonight, watching the polls with my husband and son. A proud supporter of Hillary Clinton-- I started rooting for Obama.

And it wasn't because John Legend and Scarlett Johansson told me to.

All this talk of "yes, we can" had made me doubtful. It seemed naive to follow a shepherd who so recently grasped his staff and yet, suddenly, as in right now, I want to. I want to follow him and believe in him and trust that words matter... Because words are power. I live my life by this belief. Words inspire change, act as crutches for those who are lost and we, as a nation are lost. Desperately and totally lost.

It all became very clear to me, this evening. America is uninspired. Our economy is uninspired. Our people are uninspired. Our ideas and priorities and art is uninspired. Silly as it sounds, I believe our greatest weakness as a country is our hopelessness, our dullness, sloth. No one wants to wake up to a land of smog and dust and dead ideas, deadbeats, dead ends. And so, we stay in bed. We have, for far too long, stayed in bed.

Until today.

Today people I know well, who have never voted before, voted. Because of Obama. Intelligent and highly opinionated friends used their voices, felt like it was their responsibility to make a change, a difference, to be involved in the future of this nation, to be active for change in their lives.

And although, I believe Hillary Clinton would make the best "President" in the traditional sense, I think Obama would make the better leader. Is there a difference? Absolutely. There is more to a politician than his/her politics. Obama, more than any other candidate has the ability to bring people together, to motivate his staff to make record sales.

I fervently believe that inspiration is the greatest catalyst for change and today, right now, with my whole heart, I believe great change might actually be possible, for I have never, in my lifetime, seen my respected peers so inspired, planting trees in the unsettled dust, and that's got to mean something.

Yes, Michael from LOST, I think he can.

And I hope he will.


Comments are closed due to repeated slander/hate. Apologies to those who were/and are respectful.

Great Minds Think Alike? The Paradox of Online Identity

***Updated below***

Weeks after Archer was born I decided to outline and pitch a column to some online magazines. I brainstormed clever titles and came up with "Childbearing Hipster" which I then proceeded to pitch around. It was rejected aproximately 289183 times so I closed my old blog (pointytoeshoefactory dot com: Prove your pointy) and started a new blog, naming it aptly Childbearing Hipster.

I didn't even think to google Childbearing Hipster at the time. I just went to Blogger, saw that Childbearing Hipster was available and started a blog. Voila!

Of course, it took me all of one week to find out there was another Childbearing Hipster in the blogiverse. I was mortified and felt like a fraud. A thief. Not to mention the fact that I was new to the world of mom-bloggers, which at the time was a much smaller neighborhood.

I promptly changed my name. I came up with several possibilities before choosing and googling the shit out of Girl's Gone Child to make sure I wouldn't make the same mistake. Nothing came up, thankfully and so: (This) Girl's Gone Child was born. My tagline: "welcome to the new-improved titty-flashing all-nighter."

I had an identity all my own. People would come to know me online not as Rebecca Woolf, but "GGC," and I liked it better that way. I had created for myself, a sort of second-skin.

It's pretty obvious to anyone who has been blogging long-term how drastically the blogosphere has changed in the last several years. Next month marks my sixth year blogging and, just, wow! Wow! A small town in cyberspace has become a megalopolis. Of course, as it so happens with a growing population, ideas stale. No one is original anymore. Myself included.

Enter, my paradox.

I have to assume that in the case of the new GGC girls, "great minds think alike," because honestly, if Girl(s) Gone Child was an obvious blogname for me, why wouldn't it be obvious for someone else? I would be a hypocrite if I said anything disparaging. After all, accident or not, the original Childbearing Hipster was nothing but kind to me after my invasion of her territory.

On the other hand, I would be lying if I said I wasn't annoyed to see someone else wearing my clothes and then shopping my name to communities where I am also a member, creating buzz on an already existing identity I have worked two and a half years to create.

My question, then, to you, bloggers, lurkers and lovers, is this: Does online identity matter? To what extent should one go to protect her online "brand," and where does she draw the line where ownership is concerned? If one popularizes a "name" and someone else uses said-name to popularize themselves, is that considered stealing? Squatting? Or simply, sharing?

My mind inquires...

(the orginal) GGC

UPDATED: Thank you for everyone's comments. The girls over at the other GGC site have agreed to change their blogname and URL. Their hospitality is very much appreciated. I think the lesson, here, as several of you suggested in the comments, is to buy up all of your URLs, and those that are similar (if possible). Thanks, again for your support, advice and insight. Kisses on your cheeks.