Bees Knees

knee-walking through Noah's Ark, Skirball

....I am very much in the know when it comes to the pressure of parenthood, specifically milestone markers. Milestone markers that mean EVERYTHING even though we kinda sorta have no idea what they're measured against.

After googling for answers to all questions Mirena IUD, I realized the best way to find genuine, truthful information c/o people I respect, was to open a dialogue, here...

So! I thought now would be a great opportunity to do the same (re: babe milestones). Because, as evidenced by my IUD post, doctors don't always tell us the WHOLE story. Because it might be helpful for those stressing about our "late bloomers" to hear from others...

Because the spread is vast when it comes to what is "normal"...
hello there, late bloom!!

...More, here.

Today was a much better day thanks to your kind words...

...and Archer's kind makeover.


P.S. You're so right. We're all a bunch of beautiful disasters. It's what makes us (and life) grand. And merry. And interesting. Thank you for the reminder. You're amazing, all of you.

Let's dance.

When Blythe Hands You Lemons...

I did a stupid thing. Which isn't surprising. I do stupid things all day every day but right now? I feel even more idiotic than I usually do.

It happened last October, when a dear friend of mine bought a very generous gift for Fable's first birthday. A gift I tore open on Fable's behalf, discarding the pristine box in the nearest garbage bin completely unaware of the doll's worth and importance.

As I'm sure most of you know (because you're the smart ones in the relationship) Blythe dolls are collector's pieces of gorgeous awesomeness, not meant for mothers to give to their one-year-old daughters. Really, probably, not meant to be taken out of their boxes, but I didn't know that. I didn't realize how valuable and important she was until this past weekend, when Jenny told me so.

"Whoa! You have a Blythe doll?" she said.

"What do you mean, whoa?"

"They're just very expensive. Hundreds, sometimes even thousands of dollars expensive."

"Ha ha ha hahaha...Wait. Really?"

Everyone in the elevator nodded. I swallowed hard.

"Maybe this was a knock-off Target version!" I joked/hoped/really, really hoped.

I tried not to think about the doll until I came home - which was easy to do because of the so-much-whoa overwhelming-ness of the Summit.

But then? When I did come home to find Blythe face down in the toy box, her eye-changing cord ripped out of her head, purple-ribbon missing, pigtails eschew? I burst into tears.

And that was before I even started googling.

Which was a bad idea. Especially considering the fact that I had had an emotionally jarring couple of days and all bad things seemed VERY BAD very fast.

It didn't take long for me to realize that my amazing friend had scoured the Internet to find the doll she chose for Fable. That she was a rare doll meant to be kept as treasure, not as face-down-plaything. I spent the rest of the day more upset than I have been in a very long time. Angry at myself for being impulsive, for not thinking or knowing better. Wishing I was more like my friends who do. Who do their research and honor deadlines and know what schools to apply to, who make life lists and plans and set time aside for vacation. Friends who are so much more together than I.

Later that day, our garbage disposal broke thanks to an orange peel I stupidly put down the drain. And much like the story so often usually goes, Hal and our Landlord spent much of the evening on their knees trying to fix another one of my fuck-ups.

Because I don't think. I just do things and don't think.

"Once I accidentally sold my grandmother's priceless heirloom at a garage sale," my mom told me on the phone, trying to make me feel better as I sobbed on the other end of the line.

"It was a vase and I knew the moment I sold it that it was a mistake. That I had just sold something incredibly valuable and important ... but it was too late.

"So what did you do?"

"What could I do? I mourned. I let it go. I don't have garage sales anymore. It's just life, Rebecca. Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes we don't think..."

And that has always been my problem. I'm scattered and flaky and half-assed. I don't listen, easily distracted by the notes to self, obsessing over life and all the things I thought I could handle but can't - commitments and responsibilities, endeavors and projects and when will I ever learn to "just say no!" ... to myself.

And so? I trip myself myself over and over like a broken record, inadequate, overwhelmed, unable. Because I didn't have time today to edit the video and I promised to have the script finished by the end of last week and everyone's mad because I haven't blogged in two days and Archer wants me to play Connect Four with him and Fable wants me to read her Peek-a-Moo again and again and again but it's dinner time and I haven't even started boiling the water. Not to mention responded to a single email today. Listened to voice-mail. Called my sister back.

But it's on me because I thought I could do it all no problem. Because my ambition is bigger than my ability.

Meanwhile, my head spins with a million more to-dos and to-don'ts, phone vibrates with a dozen missed-calls, new messages, reminders, deadlines, until I've disappointed everyone and myself. Until I'm drowning in paperwork and fuck! I was supposed to print Archer's homework and I forgot.


I forget everything. Birthdays and names and phone numbers, even my own. I forget what I did yesterday. What I said when it was supposed to be important. What I wrote in the last sentence. I forget the day of the dinner, arriving at restaurants a week late. I RSVP to parties after they happen.

Because I cannot get my head out of my ass. Because I do without thinking. All day long.

Just like with this post which was supposed to be about a valuable doll made worthless because of my absent-minded ineptitude, and how I blew Fable's doll-collecting future. Ruined her special birthday gift.

Because dolls are worth nothing out of their boxes. Even less when they're broken. Which seems very sad. And backwards. And not really my style at all.

Boxes are overrated. So are symmetrical pigtails. And cords. And collector's editions.

Maybe, then, this post was never about the Blythe doll and how I ruined her. Maybe this post was always about me.

The broken doll as a reminder that I'm broken, too.

And that's okay.



I don't know if it's my hormones adjusting to life without, well, hormones, of if I'm on the verge of some kind of weird breakdown of overwhelmed-by-life-ness but these last few days have been weird. And emotional. Really, for no good reason.

Anyway. Here's a pretty song that I like. Be back to regular scheduled posting tomorrow.

I think.

36. Swim Until You Can't See Land by: Frightened Rabbit


children on the playground

"Hi. I'm Archer, what's your name?" he asks the first boy he sees at the playground. He's fearless when it comes to making friends. Meeting new people. The park is for playmates. So he immediately finds his.

"Want to play with me?"


So they run along, howling, grabbing, kicking up sand. Chasing after each other they are oblivious to their differences, of first language, race and family income. Of height and weight, politics, religion. There is no cultural divide. No preconceptions. Judgment. No isms.

A little girl watches them chase each other. She leans against the swings as they dash across the playground, until they ask if she wants to play too.

The girl nods her head.

"We're playing hide and seek. Want to hide?"

"Yes," she says joining them.

And so they go running off, the three of them. Until they become four and five and six and seven. Until they are eight children darting up slides and down poles, hanging from monkey bars, pushing each other on swings, best friends who moments earlier were complete strangers. Who moments from now, will go home to different neighborhoods. Say goodbye and likely never see each other again.

And then I look around at us: the parents. All of us segregated, separate, mismatched shoes with laces untied, pretending not to notice that our children have become playmates who hold hands.

For our children, it's what brings them together that matters most. The games they play and the numbers they count and who's turn it is to hide.

For us, we are too busy suspecting and comparing, drawing attention to all the things that differentiate us, until we stand alone and inhibited, mumbling to ourselves against the chain-link fence.

But why?
Because we speak different languages.
Because we come from different worlds.
And different sides of Western Avenue.
Because it's dangerous to cross the railroad tracks.

So many reasons we have.
All of them are wrong.
Just ask our children.


when shrinkage is a good thing

...By my 20th birthday, my boobs were so pissed off at me for paying a surgeon to chop them off, they grew back. Not to their full potential, mind you, but at 36 DD they were still pretty huge. My doctor insisted on re-doing my reduction, so he did. And I got to deal with the aftermath of not being able to wipe my own ass for six weeks, all over again.

Two years after my second surgery, my breasts were once again D cups. And D cups they have been ever since, through my pregnancy with Archer, Fable, and beyond... It wasn't until about three months ago that I noticed a change. My D bras were suddenly gapping and everywhere I went people were commenting about my weight-loss, which wasn't nearly as drastic as it apparently looked.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago when my friend asked me if "I had recently stopped breastfeeding" that I realized how much smaller I was.

"No offense but your boobs have disappeared. They're gone. You look like a boy."

It was one of the nicest things anybody had ever said to me.

I bought him a coffee and an hour of WiFi.

And that day? I went home and tried on all the bras that Hal shrunk over the years by accidentally drying them.

Sure enough? They all fit. Unfortunately they were too disfigured to wear comfortably without stab-wounds...



I'm honored to be speaking this Saturday at Mom 2.0 Summit in Houston with Rob Morhaim, Executive Producer of Momversation, Karen Walrond of Chookooloonks and Leah (Peah) Peterson. We'll be chatting about mixed-media, specifically incorporating visual content (video + photography) into your website. I'll also be signing copies of Rockabye at some point.

Looking forward to meeting/seeing those of you attending!


I love me a good duet on a pier. Life needs more of those.

35. Christmas TV by: Slow Club

Valentines, Etc

Today is Valentine's Day, which means since early this morning, Hal has been on his knees, following me around with truffles, roses, compliments, wine, champagne, jewelry, diamond jewelry, a Lexus, gift-certificates for day spas, romantic comedy DVDs, a blow-up doll, feather slippers, heart-shaped erasers, pink socks, a huge greeting card, a huge greeting card in spanish, homemade art, mix CDs, porcelain figurines of angels praying, conversation hearts, oysters, flavored condoms, crotchless underwear, pink mechanical pencils with hearts on them, a stuffed cupid doll, vibrating cock rings, a baby he found, the screener of Valentine's Day (the movie), Astronaut Ice Cream, pajamas with Boston Terriers on them, an erotic massage, a panini press, 101 of the greatest love poems of all time, pasties from Fredericks, Teddy Bears holding fake roses, a cotton-candy scented butt-plug, heart-shaped Bath Salts, Bach recordings on vinyl, Bach recordings on cassette, Bach recordings on compact disc and a Turbosnake.

So if you'll excuse me...

In other news, Happy Chinese New Year, Tigers. RaRRR.

(Here are some fun places to celebrate Chinese New Year with the kids, P.S.)


*Gone Style will be MIA for the next couple of weeks but back soon with some red-hot amazing makeover action. Thanks to all who emailed your stories and commented with recommendations. We're super excited to keep the web series going for as long as you'll watch. Stay tuned for more!

Room of Their Own

The first time I shared a room with someone, I was nineteen, living with my then-boyfriend in a decrepit studio apartment off Hollywood blvd, where drug busts routinely happened on the roof and prostitutes camped out on the curbs I parked my car against.

I moved there alone at first, so when my long-distance boyfriend decided to move from Dallas to be with me, I was thrilled. Because I was in love with him but also because waking up dead seemed less likely with someone to share my room with.

Sharing a room with someone, I soon realized, would take some serious getting used to -- nowhere to go for privacy besides the toilet, lock the door. What's mine is yours. What's yours is mine. Sharing is caring. La la la.

Growing up my room was an extension of my SOUL - ceilings boasting Big Bopper pin-ups of Jason Priestley's sideburns and walls papered with Sassy magazine fashion spreads. Windows ornamented with dream-catchers, mirrors splattered with stickers, dressers scribbled with sharpies proclaiming my undying love for Mike Bjay Eric Isaiah Chris. Even as a young child, my bedroom was my looking glass. My private space of make-believe and tea parties, my place where stories came true, so when I became pregnant with Fable and Hal and I discussed the kids sharing a room, I was hesitant, hoping that by the time Fable was born, we’d be able to afford a bigger space, an extra room so the kids wouldn’t have to share theirs.

But Hal lost his job soon after I found out I was pregnant and as Fable’s due date neared, it became increasingly obvious that the nursery of my dreams was simply that.

That much like it was with Archer, no room of his own to bring him home to, our new baby would also have to share.

Where I grew up, children didn't share rooms. My friends all had rooms of their own. No Boys Allowed signs plastered to their doors and most likely for that reason, part of me felt a tremendous (and in retrospect, ridiculous) amount of guilt that we couldn’t provide for our children their own separate spaces.

My disappointment inspired a short script I wrote for a friend's collaborative film project, about ten-tear-old twins (Max and Daisy) who also had no choice but to share a room.

The story goes like this: frustrated with one another and desperate for their own space, Max and Daisy decide, one night, to build a wall in the middle of their room. First with blocks and an old dollhouse, then with books and discarded toys, memories found between torn book pages and long-lost Legos. And as they build, they remember and share and read aloud passages of their favorite stories, express fears: come together.

The wall eventually hits the ceiling and there is nothing left to build. Separation accomplished. Except, not really.

At the end of the story, Max and Daisy fall asleep on their floor in sleeping bags, faces pressed against the physical wall that has replaced the emotional one; hands reaching out for the other through broken dollhouse windows.

The film was produced last year, weeks after Fable was born and I was able to plant my kids' belongings on the set: Archer's pirate hat and Fable's doll, a sort of creative witchcraft, rehabilitation through short story.

And so, much like the happy ending of my book became the happy beginning of my marriage, my twenty-page script became my three-trimester peace of mind. If anything, I became hopeful and excited to gift Archer and Fable the opportunity of togetherness.

"You will never be lonely as long as you share space," I told Archer, the night we put them together for the first time. “Fable will always be on the other side of the room."

And it is true.

We put them down together every night. Read stories, the four of us, on Archer’s bed. Kiss them goodnight, one and then the other. And in the morning they wake up together, Archer the first to his sister's crib to say, "good morning!"

One day we'll snag ourselves a bigger place, with more space for us and an extra bedroom so the kids don't have to share. Meanwhile, the thought of separating them? Makes me endlessly sad.

There is something to be said, I think, for having someone to dream beside. Especially as a child, when entitlement is relatively unknown. Important lessons to be learned when one has no choice but to share. At least until the time comes when Archer demands privacy and Fable can't help but want to drape the doorway with Boys Keep Out signs.

For now they are happy together.

And nothing brings me more joy than sneaking into their shared room late at night to tuck them in safe beneath scattered blankets...

... His and her dreams overlapping in the space between beds. Where for the time being, there are no walls.


IUD, Chapter Three: Womb Squad vs The Hurt Locker

...I should have felt relieved leaving the doctor's office but instead? I felt paranoid and insecure.

What if I made the wrong decision? What if condoms aren't enough and I get pregnant again...?

Maybe hair loss isn't so bad. Hal seems perfectly happy bald.

And not having a sex drive? Eventually that would have changed. Maybe.
I sulked for the rest of the day. And then that night? Not twelve hours after getting my Mirena pulled, I started my period. My first period in two years. Five pounds of rolled-up toilet paper in my underwear later, I was sulking once again, doubting myself and my body and my decision. Except this time? I was crampy and wanted chocolate Pinkberry. With mint shavings.
But then? Two days later? A miracle happened:
More, here.
(Ed: for those of you in Australia unable to access Straight From the Bottle, try adding the blog address to your google reader. Shhhh... You can still access and read through RSS.)


Because it's Oscar season, I thought this week I'd post one of my favorite songs to come out of cinema this year. It played in the credits of Up in the Air, and its story is incredibly rad and worth reading -- a much-needed reminder to do. To act fearlessly and give yourself your own opportunities.

I loved the film (I think Jason Reitman is an incredible writer/director/story maker) but was a little sad for those who hurried out of the theatre during the credits and missed this charming little song.

So, here tis:

34. Up in the Air by: Kevin Renick (downloadable, here)


Gone Style Presents: The Five Minute Makeover

I'm very excited to present, along with Josie Maran and Sarah James, the first episode of Gone Style's Five Minute Makeover!

We had a lot of fun making this and hope you guys dig!

(Especially you, Missy*!)

We'll have "After pictures" of Missy's new look in the coming weeks. Stay tuned!

In the meantime, let me know if you're in the market for some hot, makeover action. Email me at with your (head to toe) budget, event, and 2-3 of your favorite tastemakers. We'll pull together a look specific to your taste and flattering to your budget!

Go team!

(Keep in mind all "stylees" much purchase their own clothes. For now, anyway. Makeup to complete the look is provided by Josie Maran Cosemetics. Thanks, Josie!)

musical credit: my supremely talented, kick-ass brother, David


*Missy contacted me after reading this post, asking if she could be the first "Gone Style" makeover candidate. "Sure!" said I, and so she was.

Girl's Gone Hero: Drew Barrymore

**Updated with DVD winners, below!**

Ed: Since my teens, Drew Barrymore has been one of my greatest heroes. First as an actress, then as a producer, always as a woman, fearless and uniquely herself. So when offered the opportunity to do a brief interview with her on GGC, I was beside myself excited. And when she called me on Monday? I was so overcome with awe, I forgot my own name. People talk about that kind of thing happening but it's never happened to me. I've spent years honing my craft of cool as not to come off as Crazy Superfangirl when meeting admirable people. But interviewing Drew put a wrench in all that. Thankfully, she was gracious and kind and didn't hang up on me. Instead? She chatted with me candidly: a heroic act indeed.

Drew Barrymore on the set of her directorial debut, Whip-It

GGC: First of all, let me start by saying ... Thank you so much for talking to me and my readers today. It's such a total thrill for me, I cannot tell you. You have always been one of my absolute heroes and on behalf of myself and a million girls like me, I'd like to thank you.

Young women need heroes, fearless leaders to inspire and motivate, and in a way, that’s what your new movie, Whip-It is all about: the importance of finding your people, of surrounding yourself with peers who might bring you out and into your own. For Whip-It heroine, "Bliss," that was her Roller Derby team, “The Hurl Scouts.” Who are those people for you? Who are your "Hurl Scouts"...?

Drew Barrymore: It’s so important we have people who inspire us. Flower Films is my Team Captain. My partner, Nancy, Chris Miller, the people I work with… We encourage each other and make each other feel like we can do these crazy things, yet keep each other in check. It’s an inspiring, nurturing, very grounding, honest place… a huge inspiration for Whip-It. I’m also lucky to have an incredible group of friends. In my case, I didn’t have a traditional family growing up so these people became my family. There’s honesty there and I’m very nervous for people who surround themselves with people who don’t say it like it is. In fact I think it’s very detrimental.
One of the greatest things you can do as a friend other than listen and laugh and support is be honest. So that’s really important for me, especially the older I get. It’s harder to hear (the truth) when you’re younger, but at that point you have to go out there and learn your own lessons and fall on your face a little bit.
But I do think being around smart, fun, brave, empowered people is vital. And that can come in all sorts of forms. There’s no rule or cookie-cutter version of that.
I think the most important thing when you’re in your core group, your tribe, is, “do you feel good about yourself!? The real you, the true you!!?"

GGC: What was it about Whip-it that attracted you as a producer and especially as a first-time director?

Drew: I wanted to do something that was personal. I felt like I had a lot to offer emotionally (when it came to) mothers and daughters. I relate to the intricacies of that subject. I wanted to make something honest. I know what it’s like to be a young girl, wanting to believe you can figure who you are and find a world where that’s accepted and fostered and not hindered.

I understand that when a mother and daughter have a different broad vision that it doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. (In Whip-it) Bliss’s mom wants the best for her, and it's not what (Bliss) wants for herself so they have to find common ground and acceptance. And although I didn’t experience that with my own family, I feel how important that is – I see it all around me.

I think it's SO important to find out who you are and celebrate that and say it loud and say it proud and not let society tell you otherwise. Find the group that says, “Great! Yes! Who are you!? What do you want to be!? Let’s DO that!!!

GGC: Find your peeps!

Drew: Yes! It’s scary enough in this world! You must surround yourself with people who can help you believe in the importance of being yourself!

GGC: Kathryn Bigelow just won the Director’s Guild award for best director, for her feature film, The Hurt Locker. The FIRST time a woman director has won. Why do you think there are so few female directors in Hollywood today? Do you think that will change?

Drew: I love Kathryn Bigelow. Loved The Hurt Locker. And I guess, I feel like the dynamics (of the industry) are continuing to evolve so I’m never looking back. I’m always looking forward.

I’ve always been sort of turned off by women who complain about men having more power. Well then? You have something you want to do? The best way to make change is to go out there and do it.

There are so many interesting, empowered women out there. How do we continue that?

We must create great opportunities for ourselves! And (Kathryn Bigelow) is a total example of that. So, Thank you, Kathryn Bigelow.

I sort of was a girl who grew up believing I could do all these things I wanted to do and nothing deterred me… You can’t let anyone break the belief system in yourself.

GGC: Like your tagline suggests, “Be Your Own Hero.” I love that.

Drew: Thank you! I’m so glad! And you know? I really buy it! I really believe it! I say it to myself! "Do it and get out there!"

GGC: I’m so inspired by you!!! Thank you so much for taking the time to chat with me and my readers, and congratulations on everything you do!

Drew: Congratulations on everything you’re doing! Like I say to my friends: "You’re doing it! Keep doing it!”

Oh. My. Gosh. I’m totally writing your name on my binder right now.

Drew: I hope it’s a Pee Chee or a denim binder with kitties on it.

GGC: (laughing like a crazy person) Yes! It is!

Drew: Then I’m in! I’m so right there with you.

I have three copies of Whip-It (now available on DVD and Blueray!) to give away to three fabulous readers!

To win? Tell me in the comments why YOU are your own hero. Three winners will be chosen at random via, next Wednesday (2/10) pm.

And now I will go die.

I'm dead now.

R.I.P. self.


*Update: Congratulations to the following winners:

1. Siobhan 5:23
2. Haley 11:30

Please email me with your information so we can get you your DVDs asap and thank you all so much for your incredibly kick-ass, beyond inspiring comments. I have THE most amazing readers in the history of the land. Thank you, thank you all. You're the awesome.


I had never heard of Adam Arcuragi until today when Hal introduced me to his daytrotter session. I fell instantly in love and think you will too. (Thank you, Hal.)

Also? Guess who took her first twenty-seven steps today?

She did.

All by herself. Across the room. No hands.


Life is a joyous dance in a haunted warehouse full of awesome shit.

33. Bottom of the River by: Adam Arcuragi


Speaking of joy and sun and mix tapes, our baby music class teacher and friend, Heidi Swedberg has a new album you ought to purchase for your babes. Her music is full of joy and goodness, her songs recorded with love. Check her out, here and listen to samples, here.

even in rain, she is sun

Happy sixteen-months, dear Fable.
You are our light.