Trust in Dreams

Just got home from my latest ultrasound and guess fucking what? We're going to have a girl, you guys. A girl! And would you know it? She even has a name. And in about an hour, an entire wardrobe. And bedding. And her very first Raggedy Anne and oh my God, I'm going to cry. I'm crying. She's already making me cry. Such a heartbreaker, this one.

"Hey, there! I have a vagina!"

Dreams over percentiles any day.


Epiblogues: Making Wishes

No words.


Three Years Old

Perfect Post Award – 0508

Dear Archer,

Three years ago, today, you happened, and then I happened and then we happened. I don't remember the precise moment I knew you were the one. Moments are left unattended, life shape-shifts. Children grow up. I read about our past and cannot believe I have so easily forgotten so much of where you came from. I have photos to remind me. And blog entries. And scraps of paper and ideas and memories and old things I can't believe you used to fit into. Old hats with snakes in them that you wore last summer, or was it the summer before?

Wait. It was last summer. Now I remember.

I don't know why it is so easy to forget. I'm pretty sure that if I didn't document every last detail of your life I would be mourning all the yesterdays: faded memories floating skyward like The Red Balloon, and you as a newborn, baby, toddler, hanging on by the string, waving at me with your fingers.

If I didn't have photographs of you in your red hat against the blue sky, I might not be able to remember how cherubic you looked that afternoon, pouting in the shade, under the sun, that thoughtful look you get when you're watching people and birds and the world.

You have become your own person this year. Or I suppose it's just that I know you differently now. The more you communicate and disagree and fight me and love me and hate me and break my heart. The more you trust me, believe me, kick me when I'm trying to tell you it's time to leave because we have to go home. How you talk to animals not with words but by singing to them. Humming songs in their ears softly, gently.

Most recently you have become attached to the moon. You search the sky with such concern. "Noon?" you say. "Where you go so fast, Noon?" And then you turn to me and point out the window and frown and I say... "The moon is sleeping, baby. Sometimes it sleeps in the afternoon. Maybe you should give sleep a try..."

But you stopped napping months ago. You only sleep when it's dark outside. And you fall asleep with your plastic lizard and your books and your music and the window drape cracked slightly so you can see the moon and I hear you say "nigh, nigh moon. night, nigh, zizard" before you fall asleep because sometimes I stand outside your door and spy on you. Sometimes I watch you sleep. Sometimes you catch me and sit up suddenly in the darkness, smile like a goose and then crash land into your pillow, pretending you are sleeping, making the fake-snoring sound with one-eye open and a cracked smile.

In the morning, you wake up calling my name, asking not for me but the moon.

"Mommy? Mommy? Where id it, Mommy? Where da noon?" you ask.

"I don't know."

Because I don't. I know nothing of moons and why sometimes they appear in the afternoon, linger in the mornings. In fact, one day you will find that I know very little. That I know nothing, really. And yet, now, when you're still small, I feel compelled to answer you. To make things up to make you happy. Give you answers. The ones you want to hear.

"The moon is going potty in the white bushes of the sky."

I don't know if this is the right approach. But I'm learning and trying and figuring it out as I go. Just as you are. With your speech and your songs and your life. And I still can't believe you exist. It's been three years and I guess I figured I would be used to you by now. But sometimes when I pick you up from school there is a moment, where I open the door and think "did I really have a child? Is he here? It wasn't just a very long dream?"

And then you appear with scrapes on your knees and a half-eaten sandwich in your lunchbox and a Ziploc bag of homemade Play-Doh and yes, there you are. I remember now.

You are growing up so fast I can't stand it. Needing haircuts often and demanding bandaids and kisses and growing more and more aware of your world.

Like when you point to my belly and say, "Hi, baby" before turning away scowling, changing your mind: "No baby! I am baby?"

"Yes. You are baby always."

Because you always will be. Even when you grow so tall I have to stand on my toes to kiss your face. You'll always be the reason for everything changing in the best way possible. You'll always be my first. My baby.

Thank you for reminding me that anything is possible. That the moon is something to befriend and the animals are things to sing to. That time is short and life is long and there are so many things to be grateful for.

Number one, being you.

(and your dad, who I also love, just in a very different way)

Happy 3rd Birthday, Archer Sagebrush, Pirate of the Snails.

Loving you like an insane person,


P.S. Here are some of my favorite shots of you from your first year. I dug these up the other day when I was weeping over your decision to grow up on me.

Misty watercolor memories, dude. Misty watercolor memories.


Lodi, Dodi, We Likes to Potty

potty animal 1.0 (we'll get to the 2.0 soon... hopefully)

I've spent the better part of the last two weeks on the toilet and not because I have to go to the bathroom. 

Ah, yes. Welcome to potty-trainingsville, where it's wet and the washing machine is always rockin' and it's probably not a good idea to walk around barefoot (or in socks). Enter with caution, people. (And platform shoes.) You never know what kind of tiny puddles might be lurking in the shadows...

More on potty-training, here. 


Hi Honey, I'm Huge!

I'm just about halfway through my pregnancy, coming in at 20 weeks and am wondering how the hell I'm going to double in size at this rate because I do not look four and a half months pregnant. Four and a half months is "barely showing" territory. Uh... not. So. Much. 

Today some homeless guy stopped me as I was coming out of the gym. 

"You look like you're pregnant!" he said. 

"No, actually. I'm not."

"Yes you are! You're lying!" 

"Okay. You got me. I lied. "

And THEN dude proceeded to follow me to my car. 

"What are you having!?" he shouted. 

"I don't know, dude." I walked faster.

"Whaaaaat Arrrrrre youuuuu haaaaaaviiiiiingggg..."

"I dooooooon't knooooooowwwwwwwwakajhsdkajdkajds!"

I almost forgot how weird people get around pregnant women. I mean, this guy was already kind of nuts but still. 

After that I came home and spent well over an hour trying to figure out what the hell to wear today because it's hard to be creative with one's wardrobe in 100+ degree heat when you're carrying around an enormous hump on your torso. 

I'm in my fourth costume change of the day, I kid you not, which is crazy because I did nothing today but the usual gym/work-at-coffee-shop-until-2:oo/pick Archer up and take him to get a smoothie/go home and sweat fucking bullets until bedtime. Although, I gotta say, when you're typing away next to the guy who wrote this, you kind of want to look presentable. Or maybe that's just me. Or maybe that's just me living in Los Angeles for ten years. A part of me expects myself to look writerly when I'm writing (Perhaps this is why I've always had a crush on cigarettes. And old man hats. And vests. And eye-patches) so then I become this obsessed with what I'm going to wear person who always ends up looking like some version of the same as everyone else. Except unlike everyone else I put all this unnecessary effort into it, which is such a waste of time for something that doesn't matter even at all. ESPECIALLY for a writer who no one ever sees anyway.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I get distracted when I'm hot. I ramble. And fall asleep on the hardwood floor like a dog. But seriously? How does one honestly dress as a pregnant person in the summer? I'm kind of thinking of starting a flickr set of (your) inspiring summer-pregnant looks because I give up. Wife beaters and beach-skirts are just not cutting it. And can we please talk about flats being highly unflattering to swelling ankles? (See above photo.)

Is it October yet?

I'm like a Sophomore with Senioritis


Congratulations to the winners of the BFF contest I posted last week. The two runner-ups who will be receiving GGC BFF mix CDs are: Amy and Angel!!! And the winner of a signed copy of Alexa Young's Frenemies is.... She Likes Purple! Congratulations you guys and thanks so much for participating! (Everyone's stories were AMAZING! Thank you so much for sharing. If you're Amy, Angel or She Likes Purple, please email me so I can get your prizes out to you asap!) Thanks, everyone! 

Pound for Pound

Somehow I've managed to get through the first half of my pregnancy without gaining any weight. Well, at least the first sixteen weeks. And in my head I kept thinking "maybe I'll just gain eight pounds this pregnancy! Yes! That's exactly what will happen."

Until I found that at this point, I have gained a total of eight pounds which doesn't bode well with my original plan. Eight pounds at nineteen plus weeks is completely healthy, of course. I'm exactly where I should be right now. But for whatever reason, watching that scale move past the 150 mark and I'm suddenly all weird and self-conscious

Last night at my film-meeting my executive producer eyed me as I walked in the door. I hadn't been to a meeting in almost a month because I was out of town and apparently my physique had noticeably changed. 

"You look... different," he said.

"Yeah. I'm getting more pregnanter. Maybe that's why."

"Oh, shit! You're pregnant! I totally forgot. For a minute I just thought you put on fifteen pounds!"

Fifteen? Do I look like I put on fifteen pounds? Really? No! It's eight! It's EIGHT!

Now this is LA, where people NOTICE when you do so much as clip your nails, so I wasn't really offended. Nah. Just horrified. I took my seat behind the dozen or so actors clutching their scripts, highlighting their lines, crossing and uncrossing their stick legs. 

I covered mine with my purse.

I've always been very self-conscious about my looks. I'm a woman after all and I've lived all my life surrounded by beautiful people. Skinny people. Half of my graduating class went on to model and the rest might as well have. One of my first loves graduated from bagging groceries at Ralphs to modeling for Versace and I never was able to get over the fact that he was far too beautiful to be with me. When I broke up with him everyone thought I was crazy. I was too insecure to every fully explain why it would never work out between us. He was completely out of my league. His beauty made me feel invisible. And invisibility was not a sacrifice I was willing to make. 

I'm very conscious of the fact that last pregnancy I gained a lot of weight. A lot. I was 203 pounds when Archer was born and I have the photos to prove it.

Here I am aprox 190 pounds, three days after Archer was born. (I lost thirteen pounds the day I gave birth.)

I worked my ass off to lose those sixty pounds and yes, I'm damn fucking proud. That shit was not easy to do and I really don't want to have to go through the 6am-wake-up- after-three-hours-of-sleep-to-hike-next-to-size-0-celebrities thing again. That was hell. 

This time around, I do have restraint. I'm sticking mainly to veggies and fish and tofu and, okay, bagels and cream cheese for breakfast (I'm a sucker for veggie cream cheese, what can I say?) and I've stayed away from sweets  and ice-cream sans my two days a week of allotted after-dinner-sweets.  My cravings have been pretty limited to spinach and goat cheese and, well, the bagels, so I've been lucky as far as that's concerned. Last pregnancy all I wanted was mud pie and baked potatoes which... Hi! Not a low-calorie diet. 

"But I'm eating for two!" I'd say. 

But, uh, a ten ounce fetus does not need QUITE as much food as a grown person. I mean... right?

I realize the probability of this pregnancy is that I will put on some weight because (duh!) that's what happens when you're pregnant. And, yes, I have come to terms with the fact that my nose will likely swell and my chin will become plural.  And I keep reminding myself that that's okay. That's part of what it means to be pregnant. And of course I'm willing to gain the weight. (Of course!) 

But that doesn't change the fact that a tipping scale is something I am unable to celebrate, even if it means a growing baby, a healthy pregnancy. 

And that scares the shit out of me. 


Speaking of Friendship...

Archer and Kennedy watch the fountain at The Grove.

Still watching... 

Don't they look like they could be sibs? 

Kennedy's mom and me,  fourteen years ago... right around the same time this was happening. 

And now, pregnant with our second babes, due two weeks apart. 

Does watching our kids grow up together mean we already have? I guess so, but, wow. When did that happen? Life, man... 


Bee Eff Effs Unite

I met Alexa almost ten years ago when she interviewed me for the now defunct Jump magazine. The article? "The Anatomy of a Popular Girl" based on one of my Chicken Soup stories about, uh, being popular.  I wish I were kidding. What's even more amazing is that the woman who interviewed my seventeen-year-old self never belittled or made me feel small, idiotic, ridiculous, which, I mean, she totally could have. Instead she treated me like an adult, a proper author of short non-fiction,  rather than the teenage poser that.  And the best news of all? She became my friend. 

Ten years later, Alexa and I are madly in love and getting married. She is one of my favorite all-time women. She's been an inspiration and mentor to me all these years, a confidante and one of my go-to peeps for support and girl-love. She's also an awesome mom and her son, Jack, and Archer have spent many a day running amok together. I cannot believe it's been ten years since we've met but more obviously, I cannot believe Alexa has never held against me how we met. At least not to my face. 

Alexa's very first novel was published Monday by HarperTeen. It's called Frenemies and it's pretty much going to be the new Gossip Girl so go check it out on Amazon or at your local bookseller. 

A fantastic gift for your teenage daughter/niece/neighbor/self! You can win a signed copy of Alexa Young's Frenemies by answering the following question:

What was your strangest or most memorable meeting of a friend, past or present? 

The winner (best/ most outrageous story) will get a signed copy of Alexa's Frenemies and two runner-ups will get a GGC Bee Eff Eff Mix CD boasting my favorite girly-fun-music of the moment. 

You can also check out Alexa's blog and website for Frenemies gossip and updates. 


This evening Kristen was kind enough to have me on Motherhood Uncensored radio If you're interested in hearing the podcast, go here

Reason #489 Why it Might be Time to Leave LA

always watching the world, even when I don't want him to... 

Fade in

Ext: Los Angeles -- Our neighborhood shops/eateries; Afternoon:

Archer and I are sipping smoothies, heading back home when suddenly a thousand slimy paparazzi dudes start making a run for it, scurrying towards us with cameras slung around their necks, squeaking like rats. More of them soon appear, elbowing normal folk off the sidewalks. Suddenly it's clear who they're after and it's impossible not to pity her. AND ourselves for being caught in a swarm of disgustingness

Mommy! Mommy! Wha dis? 
Wha dis?Wha dis doing? 

It's the paparazzi, 
Archer. They're trying 
to take pictures.


Because Lindsay Lohan
just rented a movie 
from Blockbuster and 
apparently that's something 
that will interest people.

No do dis, why?
Wha dis do?

Because dudes make
 a lot of money 
following people around 
and slamming into 
glass windows trying 
to sneak a peek at
their faces. Lame, right?

Bu... why do?

Archer sips his smoothie and pulls my arm the other way. We push through the crowd of spastic paparazzi dudes and their cologne stank and make our way down the street to the nearest crosswalk where it's clear. Where there are no Lindsay Lohans and paparazzi swarming the sidewalks and eventually, back to our street where it's quiet. And then I text Hal and ask him when the hell we're going to get out of this town because sometimes, living here disgusts me and Hal texts me back and says "I know, me too. One day soon we'll leave, I promise." And then I get home and for the ten-thousandth time check Craiglist for rental houses in Portland. 

Fade out.


Reason For the Season

Hope your Mother's Day(s) were beautiful. 



Like Rain on my Wedding Day

When I was pregnant with Archer I didn't know we were having a boy until at seven-months pregnant, unable to wait any longer to find out, I went to one of those strip-mall ultrasound places. I paid $150 to get one of those 3D videos where the baby looks like an alien rock-person and they insist on laying down some Enya tracks in the background of the "3D Experience" DVD.

Swear to God. I have a fifteen minute video of fetus-Archer with "SAIL AWAY, SAIL AWAY, SAIL AWAY" in the background. No offense to any of you Enya lovers out there and I'll admit, I used to rock the shit out of Enya in my playboy-bunny-sticker-on-lower-abdomen-tanning-salon days, but that was the 90's folks. And I was fourteen. Caribbean Blue totally suited my lifestyle.

Regardless, I brought the video home to show Hal so he could experience the joy of seeing his son's penis for the first time and would you believe? Once that Enya started blasting from our TV, Hal cried out in embarrassment, totally non-plussed by the whole experience and weirded-out that I brought such a thing home for him to view.

"Enya? Really?"

"What! It wasn't like I chose the soundtrack!"

"Just turn the volume down. That's our baby! That's our little boy!"

"Hmmmm.... Where did you go to get this thing done?"

"A place."

"A doctor's office?"

"Um. Not exactly."

It was the dicktor's fault. He didn't let me get more than two ultrasounds my entire pregnancy and I was desperate. I am the most impatient person on this planet that I know of and am unable to wait for anything or anyone. I'm one of those people who must know NOW. Surprises might be some kind of fun for most but for me? They're utterly stressful. I make lists. I listen in on conversations about TV episodes I've missed. I used to raid my parent's closets on Christmas Eve to find out what I was getting in the morning and to this day, I still read the last chapter of every book before I read its first sentence.

So, yeah. When it comes to knowing the sex of my baby, I have to know. I just have to.

I was thirty-minutes early to my doctor appointment this morning. I couldn't sleep last night. I even posted a "boy or girl" contest on my other blog, so excited was I. I had set aside an entire day devoted to a post-doctor shopping spree. I thought for sure I would 100% have a "boy or girl" answer this afternoon, which, duh! What was I thinking. (When am I ever thinking?)

Pointy and pregnant with ...

"Do you want to know what you're having today?" The doctor asked.

"Hmmm... Uh. Lemme think. Yesyesyesyesyesinfinityesyesyesyeys."

I pulled up my shirt and sat tight, my phone unlocked and ready to text Hal as soon as the doctor made his "here-ye!" proclamation. I watched the tiny black screen, my eighteen-and-a-half week fetus. It's little fingers. It's little toes. It's.... uh.... nothing between its legs.

"It looks like you're having a girl..." Doctor said. "BUT! Don't paint the room pink. It's not the clearest picture. You'll come back in three weeks and we'll use the ultrasound machine that isn't 80 years-old."

"But... what if..."

"I'd say, I'm pretty close to being completely sure you're having a girl..."

"But that's not... Oh. Okay."

I put my phone away, deflated. I wanted so badly to text Hal with "It's a... Something!" I wanted to badly to refer to myself as carrying a "he" or "she"... To share with the world and tattoo on my forehead for all to know and see. I wanted to be able to tell Archer, when I picked him up from school today, "DUDE! You are totally having a brother!" or "Guess who's having a sister-sledge?"... Instead, I went home waitlisted and infected with to-be-determined-itis, which, I'll be honest, was a total buzzkill.

I called Hal from the car, told him he probably might have a daughter but I didn't really know for sure because the doctor wasn't positive. I called my mom, told her the same and when I picked up Archer from school he gave me my first homemade Mother's Day present ever, so I didn't tell him anything, because I was too busy weeping like an idiot over his painted hands on a piece of construction paper.

"This is supposed to be a surprise," Archer's teacher had said. And it was a surprise. I had somehow totally forgotten about Mother's Day, which, sorry mom. Your card may be a few days late...

Life is so typical, isn't it? Contrary to plan. Books don't come out on their release dates. Husbands, after being out of work for six months get two job offers in less than a week. Little boys who don't talk decide to, suddenly, speak completely and fully in sentences AND then potty-train themselves. (Archer on his own decided it was time to use the potty last night after months of me failing as a potty-trainer. It was like a switch went off or something. Crazy!) I mean, isn't it all just so ironic? Like a free ride when you're already late and good advice that you just didn't take?

I think so, anyway.

In three weeks I go back for my 22 week appointment where the doctor will tell me "FOR SURE what we're having" or at least that's what I've been told. It isn't true of course. No one ever knows for sure anything. Ever. Like how I raided my parent's closet on most Christmas Eves only to find gifts that weren't mine. And how when I read the ends of books the words never mean anything-- prose without a pulse until I can re-read them again, in proper thematic order.

The most ironic thing of course is that, I am at my happiest going through life without the slightest clue as to what's really going on. When I can hope or dream or make things up. Winding up that Jack-in-the-Box, heart-beating with anticipation. Kind of like yesterday. Kind of like right now.

I'm also pretty sure I read somewhere that rain on your wedding day is good luck. So there's also that.


Are You Boy or Are You Girl?

Tomorrow we get to find out the baby's sex. I could not be more excited and am taking predictions, over here, for all of you with psychic mama-papa powers. To help your guess: Doctor was 80% sure I was having a boy at my last appointment. In my dreams, however, I'm rocking out with a daughter. (Personally, I am unable to form a conclusion.)

Anyway, go here if you feel so inclined. Correct guesser-people are eligible for signed copy of Rockabye. I'll also throw in a GGC mix-CD, because my CD burner finally works again and I like you. 


Above photograph by: Fritz W. Guerin, St. Louis, 1902

Today, Son, You Are a Man

I came home to my son, a very different person than the one I left nearly three weeks ago. I've left Archer for long periods of time before. A week here. Ten days there. But this time was different. Archer is talking, you guys. Like... talking-talking. Complete sentences. 

"Mommy? You sing me song? You sing... Daisy?" was one of the first things he asked me. So I cradled him like a baby and we sang together and then when I was finished...

"Um. Mommy? We sing now... Baluga?" 

This went on for nearly an hour, us singing to each other until it was way too late for either of us to be awake.

Yesterday we slept the entire afternoon, wrapped up together like cats. We fell asleep mid-conversation about cookies and milk and whether or not Archer could have some after nap.  It was one of my favorite afternoons on record. And when we woke up, hours later? We ate cookies and "moop" which is "very yummy snack, Mommy."

I mean... really. Who is this person and what have you done with Archer?

This morning I woke up to my name being called from Archer's room. And then:

"Hi, Mommy. Look! This is my train. And this is my book and I want socks. Deez feet are cold."

My head is seriously spinning. I left a child who mainly pointed and spoke in one word sentences and I've come back to... a full-on talking collegiate. A man! Like, whoa. 

A long time coming, for sure and his speech isn't perfect by any means but he is kicking ass with his sentences and in the last two days since I've been home, he has been able to articulate 100% what he wants, doesn't want and how he feels. This is a crazy kind of progress, people. 

Totally unexpected and exciting. I feel like we've entered a whole new world of jibba-jabba awesomeness. 

I'm really just beyond proud. 


Chapter Ten: Velvet Tits, I Can't Resist

Stoked to be reading books in front of Velvet Jesus and Velvet Stripper-tits at Powell's Portland.

Powell's Books was awesome. Thank you all so much for coming. I was overwhelmed by the amount of faces in the audience. Best end to a book tour ever. And seriously, how delicious are BMC's cookies? 

Dana and I were supposed to get up early and edit together some vids but girl's so busy hustling for the re-opening of her cafe, she'll have to finish those babies tonight without me. Stay tuned. In the meantime, I'm off to tackle my boys, I am. Woohoo!

Thank you for letting me bore you all with roadie-details and promotional linkage. I promise we'll be back to regularly scheduled programming soon. As in, tomorrow. 

And that's my time... 

The End.


Chapter Nine: The End is Nigh

I've been away from home for more than two weeks, now. And I'm starting to feel the burn. The blows to the heart. A lost voice. An exhausted everything. I need a haircut and a manicure and a kiss from my baby. I don't know how people leave their kids for long periods of time. A week I can do. Even ten days. But anything longer than that and things start to get tricky. 

I'm looking forward to coming home. To spooning my boys in the big bed.  To being a mom, again. Wearing flip-flops and dropping Archer off at school in the mornings. Taking long walks with the dogs and Archer who holds the leashes. I'm dying to get back to work on my new book, Hal and my almost finished teleplay and my very first film project (I wrote a short film that will be made this summer, indie-rock collaboration with five -filmmakers... more on that to come.) I'm pretty much addicted to working and it's been a hard task to juggle working on a novel, putting together two proposals for new books of non-fiction and writing two scripts,  not to mention keeping up with two blogs and promoting a new book. I haven't had so much as five minutes to get excited about my pregnancy, too busy trying to get as much work done now, while I can. 

When Archer was born, I went back to work after three days. And I don't think it will be that easy this time. No way, right? Not with two children. But I'm going to try. Because I have to. Because I want to. Because I will anyway. Even if it means even less sleep and more lost voices. 

Lost voices always come back. 

The thing I've noticed most, while traveling, are the cranes in every skyline. Ever city trying to make itself over, reclaim it's youth and beauty. Urbania is so busy restoring itself, becoming something new, blemishing its profile for another high-rise or hotel. I'm still trying to work on what this metaphor means to me but I have a feeling it means something. I'm going to get to the bottom of it, too. 

The other thing I've noticed is that Dana looks nothing like a lesbian assistant. Not even close. She's so fucking sexy and smart and hilarious and real and delicious that I just want to eat her face.  

So, this is kind of an ambush of nonsense but at this point I feel completely nonsensical so there you go. My eyes hurt from the glare of the computer. My boots are broken from walking on them so hard. My clothes are creased diagonally from being a god-awful packer and everything I have smells like the perfume that broke open and leaked all over my bag. 

"What time is it?" I keep asking. "And what day is it again?"

At this point, I'm pretty sure it's two hairs past a freckle past time to go home. 


Please join me, Portland people for my very last reading/signing at Powell's Books on Monday, May 5th at 7:30pm (at the main store, Burnside location) ... BMC will be supplying cookies for the event, which is like, SUCH a reason to come.  That and the fact that if my voice is still gone by tomorrow, I'll be hiring audience members to read from my book while I act it out with finger-puppets. Jolly good. 

Chapter Eight: Impromptu Readings, Four Legged-Friends

This is one of the reasons it took BMC and me eight hours to get to Vancouver instead of three:

Sadly, no books were sold after this particular reading but we did pick up some Raising Alpaca literature from the main-desk of the farm. A fair exchange if you ask me.


Chapter Seven: Maple (and other) Leaves

At Sophia books, Vancouver with my old friend and brilliant artiste, Richard Winchell

My first trip to Vancouver and man, was it cold. Cold and beautiful. I've lived in Southern California pretty much my entire life so these past few weeks have been nippy for me and my one and only pair of boots I brought with me. Apparently I forgot that the pacific northwest isn't exactly hot this time of year. My sandals and sundresses have not quite sufficed.

I've looked like an asshole pretty much since I landed in Oakland almost two weeks ago. And especially in Vancouver where the skyline is snow-capped and I'm tripping around in chiffon and sandals, freezing my fetus off.

Being pregnant in Vancouver is kind of a buzzkill. Literally. My companion and I spent some quality time in the local smoke-marijuana-legally-kinda-cafe (guess who's idea that was?) where I got to sip bottled water and interview make friends with the locals. 

I also passed out some Rockabye fliers, because promotion is what this trip's all about, right? 

My signing at Sophia Books was awesome. Marc, the Sophia Books owner supplied the event with wine which was totally cool of him and some of my favorite bloggers showed up to hang, which was just so lovely. We even had ourselves a little after-hours fun. Hey now!

But sadly,  all good countries must come to an end and besides the US dollar is so shit right now that leaving the country will surely leave you broke. Especially if you're broke to start with. Ahem. 

Sweet home, I-5 freeway...

Yesterday Dana and I made the trek back to Portland. And here we are now, blogging over half-caf lattes, uploading our four-thousand home-vids by the light of the grey Portland skies.