Deep thoughts. Perhaps too deep for someone not smoking the marijuana.

Is it possible, just possible, that we attempt to measure our love through the things that we do for our children? Diaper changing. Tear wiping. Bath giving. Lullaby singing. Laundry folding. Is it possible that we take inventory of all these tangible, quantifiable, time-consuming activities, then add them up and say, "look how much I love you! Look how much I've done for you!"

And if so, is it possible that the issue burdening working parents is not the one we tend to discuss?

I am frequently asked whether I'm worried that Thalia appears to love her daddy more than she does me. Perhaps what I should be contemplating is whether I'm worried that her daddy appears to love Thalia more than I do.

Jesus is da Bomb Pop

Exhibit A
A simple ice cream truck, mobile purveyor of all things sweet,
creamy and artificially flavored. But wait! Upon closer inspection...

Exhibit B
Evangelism on wheels!

Since I was raised that one's relationship with one's god was private, something solely between you and, well, God--the evangelical world is a very different one from mine. This despite the fact that the Jehovah's Witness world headquarters is right smack in my Brooklyn neighborhood.

If proclaiming one's faith to the public (tattoos, trucker hats, mud flaps) in a non-ironic way makes me a little uncomfortable, then certainly proclaiming one's faith as a part of unrelated commercial endeavors confounds me completely. There was a New England donut shop chain way back when that printed proverbs on the coffee cups. I always wondered whether they stopped to contemplate how many of their non-Christian customers they alienated, or whether they did but just didn't care.

And then there's the issue of the Good Humor Man of God.

Is the bumper sticker putter-onner just so devout that he can't help but plaster his belief system all over the place? Is he hoping for a little extra Jesus magic cast his way--an I'll plug you/you plug me sort of thing (i.e. the spiritual version of a reciprocal blogroll link)? Or perhaps he is hoping to stir up more business with it, appealing to that intersection between the Santa Monica ice cream eating-public and the Santa Monica Christian business-patronizing public, a small demographic indeed.

If the latter is the case, I'd like to offer a few bumper stickers that could work just a little harder:

The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want for a Toasted Almond.

Jesus says: Relax! (And have a FrozFruit)

The meek shall inherit the remaining Chocolate Eclairs. You know, the good ones with the chocolate bar in the middle.

Love thy neighbor - buy him a Chipwich

Jesus is King Kone

Covet not thy neighbor's Choco Taco. Get your own, $1.35.

Ask and you shall receive extra sprinkles.

WWJE: What Would Jesus Eat? (May we recommend the new Neapolitan Ice Cream Sandwich?)

I apologize in advance for offending the vast majority of the world. Peace.

Because It's a Sloooooow Weekend in Blogsville, USA

A meme, courtesy of Issa.

I AM George W Bush, Pres'dent of the You-nited States. (I know! Can you believe it?)

I WANT to rid the word of evil-doers. Actually I don't want to do that. I just want the credit for doing it. I'd rather be playing Tiger Woods PGA Tour 06 on PS2.

I WISH good people didn't have to die. Like Ronald Reagan. And Jim Varney.

I MISS the annual Spring Fling at the Skull 'n Bones--rum punch, togas, and snorting blow off a sorority pledge's B-cups. Good times.

I HEAR that Condi scribbles, Mrs. Condoleeza R Bush in the margins of her notes during meetings. Heh.

I WONDER why bacon is just so tasty. Sometimes, during security briefings I just can't stop thinking about bacon. I wonder if other presidents had the same problem.

I REGRET that Jefferson had to go and write that constitution thing and ruin it for the rest of us.

I AM NOT a fan of the French. Them speakin' all French and everything, like they're hot stuff. What's wrong? English not good enough for 'em? F*cking French.

I DANCE around Helen Thomas' questions pretty well, don't I?

I AM NOT ALWAYS as stupid as I sound. Sometimes I just don't feel like putting the words together in the usual ways. I call it creativousness.

I WRITE good.

I CONFUSE the Axis of Evil for the Axe Effect. Which one is the deodorant again?

I NEED a beer.

I SHOULD probably help Laura with the TV Guide crossword. Movie Star Brad P---? Darn it, I'm never good at the football questions.

I START my days with fifteen minutes of tai chi and a chai latte. Ha! Fooled ya. Bet I coulda convinced you I drive a hybrid too.

I FINISH the funny pages every Sunday. Garfield is my favorite. He's always getting into trouble!

I TAG Jesus. We just talked last week and he told me he's been itchin' to do a meme.

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Revenge of the Nerds Part XXIV: The Nerds Watch TV

The moment I knew I could fall for him was very specific. We were leaving my apartment for a change (ah, remember those early days of lust?) and he turned to me and said, "Oh I get you. Everyone thinks you're this cool, together, sophisticated woman but you're not. Deep down you're just a huge nerd."

And I said, "YES! Yes, that is exactly what I am. Hooray, someone who finally gets me!"

True love.

To this day, Nate makes an extra special effort to remind me exactly what a dork I am for any number of reasons. Often it's the music I listen to. My bouncy 80's compilations--some still on casette. Booya!--can't hold a candle to Spoon or Steve Malkmus or I'm so Cool You Can Only Buy My CD on the Streets of Prague at 2 am, or whatever it is booming out of his fancy laptop speakers.

Sometimes he digs on me for the fact that I choose a crowd-pleasing chick flick on those rare movie outings, in lieu something big-budget and actiony, rife with product placement and snappy catch-phrases. Sometimes I just like to see women talking. About their feeeeeeelings. Deal with it.

This week I'm being hassled for my TV watching behavior.

First, I must say that it was Nate himself who got me watching America's Funniest Home Videos. Pre-Nate, I wouldn't have been caught dead flipping to the uncomic stylings of Tom Bergeron and his staff of C-level gag writers on a Friday night. It was all so very...red state. But if my indie comedy-loving partner vouched for it, I was willing to give it a shot.

As it turns out, it's actually pretty entertaining to watch men getting hit in the nuts with softballs week after week. Who knew? So the way some couples have "our song" or "our restaurant," soon AFHV became "our show."

Well apparently I am the worst kind of nerd to watch this kind of show with because, as I have recently learned after all these years, I have the bad and decidedly nerdy habit of giving the play-by-play, out loud, after each scene:

Oh no, he fell off his bike into the pool!

Ha, that dog won't stop chasing his own tail!

How funny, he just made his stomach sing Oh Danny Boy!

Nate's like, "um, yeah I know, I'm sitting right next to you watching it too, remember?" But I just can't help myself.

No way! He waxed his underarm hair!

Hey, that baby put blocks in his diaper!

Ha! He got hit in the nuts with that softball! AGAIN!

If we ever get married, I'm totally changing the vows so that he has to promise to love me despite my inner nerd. And if he doesn't? At least I'll always have a firm date every Friday night with Tom Bergeron.

It is 2006, right?

Please don't call Nate The Mommy, or any derivation thereof. Not Mommy Nate, not Mr. Mom that old chestnut, not The guy who's playing Mommy.

And certainly not The Nanny.

He's The Daddy.

He stays home with our daughter. This makes him a Stay at Home Dad.

Please don't ask him questions like, "so, what do you really do?" He really does take care of a 10 month-old full time. Sometimes more. Don't ask him whether it's fun playing babysitter. Don't ask him whether his wife appreciates the break.

Certainly these questions demean what he does, but they also demean what I do. They imply that a mom is not a mom unless she's staying home with her children. They imply that I'm not doing my job. That I'm not fulfilling my womanly imperative. And lord knows I have enough of my own guilt about that already.

Last night at dinner, I asked whether I could let baby taste the guacamole and Nate rolled his eyes ("too spicy!"). Eyerolling is his preferred method of communication--he's got a different eyeroll to suit any occassion, each with its own shade of meaning--so I didn't think anything of it. What did cross my mind was whether the waitress, overhearing the exchange, assumed I was someone other than Thalia's mom. Enter: Guilt.

Somehow I doubt that the guilt factors into the equation of working dads quite the same way as it does with working moms. When I ask Nate if it's okay to give the baby guacamole, whether she napped well today, or what it means when she clenches her fists like that--it's hard. Really really hard. Because deep down I think that I should already know these things. Something tells me that working dads don't feel like they should know all of the minor details of their child's lives. I think some of them want to know these things. I think many of them enjoy knowing these things. But I don't think the vast majority feel the obligation in quite the same way.

In fact I think that the stay-at-home dad who is capable of some level of introspection likely feels he should be doing something else. Which isn't to say that he doesn't love and take care of his child like nobody's business--anyone who's spent even a minute with Nate and Thalia together will gush about what a fantastic (not mom) dad he is. But prescribed societal roles are tricky to overcome, even for those of us who protest against them the loudest. They're ingrained in us to the degree that they start to feel more like biological imperative than imposed cultural norms. Or maybe they're a little of both.

It may not be PC to say so, but I've come to the conclusion that a stay-at-home dad is not the male equivalent of a stay-at-home mom. On the outside, the job may be performed just as well, but on the inside there's so much other stuff that comes into play. I think stay-at-home dads have to fight so many internal and external forces to perform their jobs, let alone perform them well, that they deserve a whole lot more credit and encouragement than even their female counterparts.

So please don't call Nate the Mommy.

Thank you, The Management.

--------

McWhatTheF*ck

Today, the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas posted a link to a news story that suggests the nation should boycott McDonalds. I was like, oh man, what have they done this time?

I read Fast Food Nation. I watched SuperSize Me. I've seen their bun-as-lactating boob ad. I've read about the lawsuit over the beef fat in their vegetarian fries. I've survived wicked McIndigestion on the New Jersey turnpike on long drives down to DC. Is there yet another reason to start weaning ourselves off the artery-clogging scrumptiousness (and magical hangover-helping properties) of Mickey D's?

Allegedly McDonald's is knowingly, willingly, joyously, hiring sex offenders to work the counters. At least according to Nashville's WTVF.

(A hint to the NewsChannel 5 Investigative Team: If you have a real story about real pedophiles working the counters, don't lead off with a quote from an employee who was convicted of having sex with a 17 year-old when he was 21. Lumping BS statutory rape charges in with actual sexual predators does your entire story a disservice.)

So while it seems that there are a whole lot of incidences around the country (holy crap, what is up with Indiana and Lousiana?) that support the allegation, it begs the question--what's to be done about it?

Contacting McDonalds seems like a start, but is a full-out boycott of the company really going to fix the problem? Isn't it easy for those convicts to just fill out applications over at Burger King or Chuck E Cheese or Toys R Us instead?

Perhaps what we need is stricter legislation about the employment of sex offenders, more specifics about where they can and can't work, and how businesses that put employees in contact with children need to enact background checks on all applicants. I want to do something that goes beyond me just calling a complaint line, getting a "Thanks so much for your call! Have a McNice day!" on the other end, and feeling all peachy because I've "done something." I'd rather figure out what might actually make some impact.

Hm.

------

Edited to add: To be clear, I think low-risk ex cons deserve second chances if all signs point to "no worries with this guy." I'd like to distinguish them from vile repeat offenders who demonstrate an inability to be rehabilitated.

Kewl

I'm very very tired. Three consecutive twelve-hour shoot days with 7 am call times will do that to you. Er...I mean, advertising is GLAMOROUS! SO VERY GLAMOROUS! Don't you wish you were me?

I just don't have it in me to write something long and rambly with many adverbs today, but I do want to show you the coolest thing ever in the history of the world.

No, not the hastily scribbled production notes, although they were funny in that tenth-grade boy kind of way.

No, not my first celebrity sighting in four consecutive trips...although it was quite a thrill to run into a character actor (the guy on the left) from a cancelled HBO series.

No, not Ray Charles' former house, or the fact that I made a nice big indent on the lawn with my ass, while we filmed across the street.

Yes, this is it! Yes, yes, YES!
Does it look familiar? Does it? Because it made me swoon.

I'm a total dork, I know.

Eek

I'm going to hell.

Although wait, Jews don't have hell.

So I'm going to wherever would be really really bad according to Jews. Like Iran. Or community college.

I thought Nate took care of arranging catsitting. He thought I took care of arranging catsitting. You can see where this is going, right?

Five days after leaving town, we managed to track down a neighbor to whom we are now very much indebted. Because substantial though Desdemona may be, I don't know that she could survive off her own fat stores indefinitely.

The neighbor fed the cat. He watered the cat. He has not called about the cat. I will take this as one of those no news/good news situations.

I'm so sorry Desi. Even though you suck in a million ways, this is not some sort of subconscious means of offing you and replacing you with a kinder, gentler feline. I swear.

Delicious Sponsor-y Goodness

Dear Mom101,

I was okay with you doing a little review of a mediocre KY product, but now ads? Actual ads? In your sidebar? Frankly I expected more of you.

A loyal reader


Dear loyal reader,

What part of "I work in advertising" don't you understand? I got no beef with advertising. It puts my kid in diapers. And lets me meet people like Dennis Rodman. (Did I ever tell you about the time he asked to take me to some underground club where they pour hot wax on your nipples? Yeah uh, I didn't go.)

Until I get a six-figure grant from some crazy philanthropist to continue my blathering about nursing bras and Satan in the Oval Office and how much some advertisers suck, I'm psyched as all hell to be a part of the BlogHer ad co op.

Love,
Mom101

PS You still like me, right? Please like me.

Sex! Innuendo! Product Placement!

Last week I received a sample of KY Sensual Mist Personal Lubricant--yeahhh, baby--that was sent to me by a fancy fancy PR firm so that I might write about it and help create some buzz. Because, you know, I'm just that influential. One word from Mom-101 and women everywhere drop what they're doing, leave their cookies to burn, abandon their children, and flock to their local drugstores. In other words, KY couldn't afford Susan Sarandon, and Christine Lahti had a prior committment.

Here's a quick analysis:

The name: I could not for the life of me remember it. I kept saying to Nate, "Hey baby, we have to have KY sex for my blog. Go get that Happy Rainbow stuff."

"Happy rainbow?"

"Vanilla mist. Raindrop surprise. Summer Fog. Something that sounds like a douche. Go get it?"

The product descriptor: "Personal lubricant." I question this. I mean, is there any lubricant that is impersonal? Like a lubricant you apply through a glory hole in the bathroom wall of a Christopher Street bar or something? Ew, I just went a little too far there, didn't I.

The functionality: Okay noooooow I understand why it's called Sensual Mist. You spray it. Like you would a sticky lock, or a germy bathroom. And that makes a mist. The whole process is a little mechanical, if I may say so. Or as Nate put it, "I get it. When you lube up, your hand gets all goopy. So they're just trying to take the goopy hand out of the equation." In other words, it's for couples who don't want to actually touch each other.

I can just imagine who they recruited for their focus groups. What I would have paid to be behind that 2-way mirror, and not just for the free MnMs.

The verdict: I'm so so so sorry fancy PR agency, but I have to give the product a 6. We like our, er, relations...just a little more slippy slidey than the water-based KY Sensual Mist allows. And Nate gave me permission to mention that it works better for two than it does for one, if you catch my drift. So you lose that dual-use that's so integral to our purchase decision in this category.

But on the upside, the packaging is convenient for travel, and sometimes it is nice to have a goopy-less hand option in the personal lubrication department. Besides, it was worth it just to have Nate put the baby in the playpen and hear him say, "sorry sweetie, this will just be a few minutes. It's mommy's research for work."

Heh.

Everyone needs a Hally in their lives

Holy Bad Hair Decade, Batman!

A best friend is the person who loves you for you. She let's you sing Berlin's Metro at the top of your lungs even though you're verging on tone deaf, and she isn't afraid to tell you that yes, in fact your ass does look bad in those jeans but your boobs look spectacular in that shirt, and that's what guys will focus on anyway, so shut up and let's go or we're going to be late. She's a support group, a reality check, and a fan club all rolled into one.

In my case, Hally is all this and more. She still tells the story of the day we met. Apparently I walked right up to her in kindergarten (I was a bold one, even then) and announced, "Hey, you're Hally, right? I'm Liz. Let's play." Little did I know, she would evolve into my joined-at-the-hip counterpart for the next thirteen years or so, the loyal friend who never told about my fifth grade crush on Jason Brizzi, despite the fact that everyone already knew. (And damn if my dad didn't slow down the car every time we passed Jason's house, calling "Jaaaaaaaasoooooon..." and reminding me that If Lizzy G married Jason Brizzi, she'd be Lizzy Brizzi.)

That same year, Hally and my weekends were spent at the midnight screening of Rocky Horror. Her father was kind enough to carpool us and accompany us to the show, since our combined ages hardly allowed us legal entry to the theater, let alone the driver's seat of the car. And yet there we were, water pistols in hand and Charmin rolls at the ready, prepared to do the Time Warp with grownups.

Clearly inhibition wasn't our thing.

In sixth grade, lunch hours were spent at her house, inhaling melted cheese on English muffins so that we could get to the dancing. We were determined to be the first girl-girl performers on Solid Gold, and had choreographed a hot disco routine to Dancing Queen for our national television debut. We waited for the call but alas, it never came.

By junior high, we applied our passion in a more appropriate forum: Bar Mitzvas. We became known as The First Girls on the Dance Floor every Saturday morning. Adolescent self-consciousness? Puh-lease. If there was an organist plinking out Kool and the Gang, then that parquet floor was ours to conquer.

With the exception of a short, and perhaps necessary hiatus during those early teenage "finding yourself" years, Hally and I remained tight through more than a decade of little league, summer camp, soccer games and ballet recitals. Through band trips and snow days, unrequited crushes and college deferment letters, and many many Halloweens. By high school we were far too old for trick-or-treating, but who were we to pass up an opportunity to dress up in costumes and act like idiots?

So many details flooded back to me this week when Hally informed me she still has practically every note we ever passed to one another in class. Let me assure you, that's saying a lot. And then, this arrived in my email inbox this week:


The date at top: Jan. 6 1986!!! Extreme emphasis on the 86 because this was the year we had dreamed about for so long, the year we would graduate high school. The letter is the quintessential glimpse into the mind of a 17 year old, and after reading it, I feel like I've been judging the Ohmigod Girls of My Space a little too harshly.

Dearest Hallard, Hey...wassup? I'm quite fatigued. I am sitting here writing on my new and funky typewriter, even though I should be working on my short story. But that's okay, befcause I have all these frees with nothing to do and I really don't have to hand it in until Friday. I could hand it in earlier if I want, but I don't want...

Compelling stuff, I know.

I go on to write the transcript of an imaginary interview with Hally after having been accepted into the college of her choice. Of course I'm with her, because what high school girl would agree to be interviewed without her best friend?

Interviewer: So, Ms. M...
Hally: Just Hally's okay. And you can call her bitch 'cause that's what I call her.
Liz: Fuck you!
Interviewer: *ahem* Now Hally, what do you feel is the best part about getting accepted into a University such as George Washington? Is it the University's prestige? The thought of living on your own? The opportunity to expand your knowledge?
Hally: No, it's not any of those.
Interviewer: Well then, what is it?
Liz: I'll tell you the real deal. It's 'cause the drinking age is still 18

I always gave myself the good lines.

Today, Hally inspires me in a million different ways, not the least of which is because she's a single mom raising toddler twins on her own. (Well, on her own plus the proverbial village that it takes, as she'll be the first to tell you.) Whenever things get tough on the parenting front, I think, well Hally's doing a bang-up job and she's got TWO of them, and that always seems to do the trick. She speaks about parenting with more honesty than anyone I've ever known, and was the first to assure me that whatever I am feeling--good, bad or otherwise--is absolutely okay. More so, she was the first who I actually believed when she said it.

Hally's also mama to the world, an honest to God save-the-planet type who's actually doing just that, traveling the globe to rid the world of injustice and HIV, starting with the countries who can least help themselves. I have an entire collection of postcards from exotic places like Dominica, India, and Namibia that document her journeys across the world for the past fifteen years or so. Like Hally with the notes we passed, I've never thrown one of her postcards away.

The upside of all this: I'm ridiculously proud of her.

The downside to all of this: As she reminded me last night, she's moving to Tanzania. Next week. For two years.

With all of my work-related insanity of recent weeks, it absolutely slipped my mind. Or maybe I just conveniently put it out of my head, since it seems impossible that I could have forgotten. But now I'm stuck here on the left coast with no chance of hugging her goodbye before she leaves. The heartbreak I'm feeling is immeasurable, and the only solace I've found is in my possession of a webcam and copious frequent flyer miles.

Anyone up for a safari with me next year?


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If you can't get enough of Mom101 today--and really, who ever can?--I'm blog sitting at Motherhood Uncensored today. So fun! Like having a summer home! Come visit me there and I'll grill up some hot dogs.

The Mother's Day Gift That Keeps on Giving

I have been trying to make time to participate in Her Bad Mother's Great MommyBlogger Love-in. Truly I have. But between the Mother's Day festivities, the packing, the traveling, the working full-time, the blog reading, and...what am I forgetting? Oh right, the actual MOTHERING--it's been a little tough to squeeze in.

I feel like the one dorky friend arriving at the party just as everyone else is leaving, and saying, "whooooo! Let's get this party started! The Lizenator is here!" And you're all like, "Yeah, whatever. It's midnight you idiot and the party started at 7."

So here I am scraping up the congealed brie from what's left of the cheese platter, grabbing a warm beer, and begging you to stay. Just a little longer. For I too would like to share a few of my fav-or-ite things.

I need to start by saying I have a bazillion blogs on rss. That is the actual number. I counted once, and it took many hours. I do my best to read them as often as I can because each one, in its own way, inspires me, motivates me, makes me laugh, makes me think. If I ever comment on your blog then you know I'm reading you with some frequency. And let's just say, I don't read stuff that sucks. It physically pains me.

But since I can't possibly call you out each by name for the aforementioned reasons (and since so many participants in the Love-In have already done this so beautifully--one of the downfalls of coming so late to the party), I'd like to mention just a few very special blogs to me: My first loves. Those early reads/readers who got my site meter up to a good 10 or 12 hits a day. As I've said here recently, an audience, however small, is my heroin; it's the drug that keeps me writing day in and out. And these women were my benevolent dealers.

Rebecca was the first. I found her through the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas Mom of the Week. The site instructed me to leave a comment and so I did. And--surprise of all surprises--she commented back. It was like coming home to find a celebrity hanging out on my couch, reading my magazines. A real live Mom of the Week! A popular blogger--here! Writing to me! I am constantly awed by her writing, not to mention her headlines. I mean, come on-- Placenta: A Woman? It takes a Village, People? Brillllliant (delivered like Jon Lovitz as the Thesbian). And as someone I've now been fortunate enough to meet live and in the flesh, I can only assure you she's every bit as enjoyable in person.

Next came Mrs. Fortune. I immediately fell in love with her humor, her introspection, her wonderfully observational, stream-of-consciousness writing style, particularly as it related to her pregnancy. Her response to a bumper sticker advertising employment for one-ton diesel drivers: I was relieved to find out that in the (increasingly likely) event that I do pork up to 2,000 pounds, a job awaits. Good stuff. Wish I could take credit for it, like pretty much everything she writes.

Then came Kristen, my blogging soulsister and now business partner. A truly nurturing spirit, she actually took the time to email me a comment since dorko here messed up the commenting options on blogger. I can't imagine anyone who reads Mom101 doesn't read Motherhood Uncensored. In fact, I can't imagine that anyone who reads any blogs doesn't read MU. She's the next Dooce (you heard it here first, folks). She'll having you clutching your stomach with laughter one minute, and weeping the next. That's talent. And one day very soon I guarantee you'll be paying full price for it through Amazon. Get it now while it's free.

Next came Carrcakes, Binky, and StephanieRJ, a remarkably supportive trio, with enjoyable blogs to boot. Caroline seems so sweet and genteel, and yet is perfectly comfortable telling you how she farted in her anesthesiologist's face during labor. Binky is a novelist in the making and nearly any post of hers will confirm this. Stephanie was described by Izzy as being "like a perfect sweater, warm and cozy." I can only concur. I mean, the woman used to be in the Peace Corps. What I love about these three is that these are probably not women I would have met in the real world. But somehow we've found each other here and I feel both my life and my writing are richer for it.

Finally, I will always have a soft spot for Jenn, a real live fancypants playwright. Hers was the first blog which compelled me to go back and read pretty much everything she'd ever written. And then--ohmigodohmigodohmigod--she linked to a post of mine. I went from six readers to about sixty overnight, which is a testament to just high her blogging Q score must be.

I wish I could do more. But I'm jet lagged. And I have a beautiful sleeping baby in the other room with a restless leg in search of a head to kick all night.

Happy Mother's Day (again) everyone. Let's remember that we can all be nice to our fellow moms the other 364 days a year too.

Better Than a Webcam

This morning, at 6:15 am I awoke to my baby grabbing my nose.

And poking me in the eye.

And sticking her fingers up my nostrils.

And smashing her forehead into my cheekbone.

And digging her nails into my neck.

And kicking my stomach.

And I was very very happy. About all of it.

Because this morning I woke up in LA, the beginning of another extendatrip. And this time Thalia--and Nate--are right here with me.

Just last week I arrived home after five days without the baby, and discovered she had to reacclimate to me. She remembered me, but fussed when I took her out of the arms of her grandma. She sat in my lap, but cried when Nate left the room. As my former therapist used to tell me, I'm very good at saying, "I'm okay! I'm okay!" most especially when I'm not. I wasn't. It was difficult. No, it was more than difficult. It sucked. Big time.

But this morning, awakened by the grabbing and poking and sticking and smashing and digging and kicking, I dragged my sleepy, jet-lagged self out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. While there, I heard Nate comforting our whining daughter with, "don't worry sweetie, Mommy will be right back."

And I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

Hi, I'm Thalia's Mom.

The pressure on a momblogger (mommyblogger? female parental unit blogger?) to compose a post suitably eloquent for mother's day must be something akin to what a Cardinal feels when he sits down to write Christmas Day mass. This is our Superbowl, our walk down the red carpet, our hour-long season finale brought to you uncut and uninterrupted, thanks to a generous grant from the Ford Foundation.

The pressure is tenfold, this being my first mother's day and all. And I kind of keep forgetting it's mine. For the past 37 years, Mother's Day was a day to celebrate all the mothers in my life. It's tough to suddenly see it as a day to celebrate me.

Me.

Because I'm a mother.

Oh my God, I'm a mother.

Whoever's in charge of this kind of thing--Mother Nature or the stork or the sperm gods or whoever--is surely thinking, whoops, I must have been on coffee break when this one slipped through the system. Damn those mochaccinos, they're such a distraction and yet--so tasty.

So now here I am, Thalia's mom.

It does have a ring to it, I gotta say.

While each of our experiences as mothers are unique, I believe that most of what we all feel the first year is the same - amazement, exhaustion, anxiety, joy. To elaborate on this would be to tell you what you already know, which is that, like you, I'm amazed, exhausted, anxious, joyous and more. Pass me a thesaurus and the list will go on until you have no choice but say, "yeah yeah we GOT IT already. Motherhood is crazy and you've never been this happy, and who knew, blah blah blah. Join the club."

And I would have to respond, "well thank you so much! I think I will join the club!"

To me The Club is the bonus feature that no one told me about, the free gift with purchase. Gestate a human being for 41.5 weeks, bring her home, raise her up, and you too get a free membership into Club Motherhood. Offer expires never.

The best part about The Club is that I already know the members--they're all the mothers I've ever loved and who have ever loved me. It's amazing how the simple (or not simple; common, maybe) act of having a child has connected me so profoundly to the other mothers in my life. I always knew that my mother loved me. I never knew exactly how she loved me. Until now. And now that I understand this, I am acutely aware of it in every mother I know--my friends, my relatives, the Korean lady behind the register of the corner deli.

It's like I have been granted a pair of those x-ray glasses from the backs of comic books, a pair of plastic specs that enables me to see inside the heart of every woman pushing a stroller down the street, every woman frantically shushing a crying baby on the airplane, every woman staring cluelessly at the rows of formula in the drugstore for the first time. I am connected to them all in a way that I wasn't one year ago. It's sometimes hard to resist the urge to run up to random women in the street pushing strollers, grab them, swing them around, and squeal, "me tooooooo!"

So MommyWars? Bah. Whether we stay at home with our kids or head to work every day, whether we feed 'em from the boob or the bottle, whether we put our babies in their cribs every night or allow ourselves (myself) to be kicked in the head by them all night long--we're all still Mommies, just trying to do the best we can with what we've got. In the end, we have more in common than not. Because even if it's just one thing that binds us, that one thing is the biggest thing in any of our lives.

One year ago today, I dragged my Jabba the Hut-esque pregnant self across the bridge into Manhattan for a very swelegant brunch with the rents. Watching a trendy couple maneuver the Bugaboo between the white linen-clad tables, I thought, that will be me next year. Minus the trendiness.

But today, I wouldn't even see the trendiness. At least not right off. First, I see the motherhood.

And that's pretty cool.

Happy day to all you mamas out there. Thanks for all your beautiful words, and to you HBM, for the inspiration for many of them. Thank you all for being the best of what mothers can be. It's comforting to know that even when we've got a whole lot of stuff going on in our lives, we still make time for each other.

Hi, I'm Thalia's Mom. I'm happy to be part of your club.

A Pop Star Made Me Cry

What are these things pouring forth from my eyes? Wet, salty...uh-oh.

This is the result of just having watched this for the first time, thanks to my mom and my stepmom who pointed it out to me. (You know you're freakin' busy when your own parents are more hip to the MTV headlines than you are. ) I was expecting some sort of angry, raunchy, fist-in-the-air song with a few digs on the drunk driving record.

Wrong.

This song is heartwrenching.

I always wondered just what it would take for the protest song movement to come back again. And now, here it is. In the spirit of Bob and Joan and Janis, here's Pink, singing her little heart out about the state of the not-so-unified union in a way far too poignant for someone quite so young and so, well...Pink.

I'm crying because she's saying all the things I've always thought myself. Because I don't think this is a President with the ability to feel anything for anyone. Because the line how do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye punches me right in the solar plexus.

I'm crying because somewhere near 50% of the people (Ohio my ass, Diebold) think so little of our country, that they've seen fit to put it in the hands of a reckless, incompetent fool. Twice.

I'm crying because I think of my mom shaking her head and whispering, "why? Why didn't my generation do better by you?"

And I'm crying because I don't want to have to say the same to my daughter.

Or maybe it's just my allergies.

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Edited to add: You haven't heard the end of this one, folks. As sassy Celtic queen MacBoudica kindly pointed out, there's breaking news about this very song. Right now, as we speak! Excitement!

A fifth-grader in brother Jeb's state (insert eyeroll here) was forbidden from performing the song at a school talent show. A district spokesperson said it was because the song was about "drug use [it's against it], war [no!], abortion [no such reference] gay rights [yeppers] and profanity [the word hell]." The ACLU isn't buying it.

Personally, I think kids should stick with the songs we sang in music class in my youth. Like "With a little help from my friends." The getting high reference? Totally about shoulder rides.

Thank You, Front Left Inscisor

Teething = the best excuse EVER. Why didn't anyone tell me?

Oh, I'm sorry she's so fussy. She's not usually like this, she's teething.

I know we really should start that Ferber stuff and get her to sleep in her own crib at some point, but since she's teething and all...

I'm sure she's just throwing her food on the ground and shrieking at the top of her lungs because she's a little uncomfortable. You know, from the teething.

I am aware that it's possible (maybe) that at ten months, Thalia is simply evolving from the always happy, never fussy, A+++ child that every other mom in the universe wishes she had--into a regular old toddler with all the demands and tantrums and attachment issues that come along with the stage. But we'd prefer to go on believing it's a temporary situation; something that will be remedied just as soon as the rest of those teeth break through the surface.

Four down...how many to go? Oy.

Come to think of it, everyone should use teething as an excuse. It could go a long way.

Hey douchebag, that's my cab. Step away from the door. I'm cranky and I'm teething.

Honey, not tonight. I'm teething.

Yes Helen, it is true that the President shows no compassion for anyone other than himself in this world including his own children. But he's teething.

Death by Hallmark

I have a confession to make.

I have a deep-seated phobia, something I've never told anyone before. It's a fear greater than public speaking, greater than toxic shock syndrome, greater than that dream where I have to repeat high school and can't remember my locker combination or how to put on my pants.

I'm terrified of greeting cards.

Reading this post about them yesterday made me sweat. I could feel my palms become clammy and damp, my hands started to shake, and then my stomach started to feel just a little...well, squidgy.

To be clear, it's not the cards themselves that scare me. I love buying them and I love receiving them. In fact, send me a few if you're so inclined; I'm one of those people who saves them forever, cramming them into shoeboxes stacked precariously on the top shelf of the closet. Every so often, particularly if I'm feeling a bit down, I'll rifle through the boxes as if to quantify the love I've received through the years in terms of the dog-eared cards and hastily torn colored envelopes that marked celebrations and milestones of younger days.

It's the prospect of filling one out myself that freaks me out.

Being a writer creates a heightened sense of anticipation in your loved ones when they tear open that card you've just handed them. Your family will expect something a cut above the average "Love you Dad." Your acquaintances will expect appropriately droll bon mots about what it means to turn 34. Your best friend will look for effusive, gushing prose about how important her friendship is to you on this, the fourth day into the new year. (This tends to be the earliest day your Christmas cards arrive, the delay unmistakably correlated with your card-writing paralysis.)

And yet every time I open that newly purchased card and commence putting pen to paper, I am as blank and devoid of creativity as everything left of the fold.

Which explains why each card I compose always starts with the same banal phrase, "I can't tell you..." As in, I can't tell you how much you mean to me, Dad. I can't tell you how great it is to be 34. I can't tell you how glad I am that we have another year together.

It's true. I can't.

Ugh.

The worst to me however is the dreaded group card, the one that gets passed around the office--an advertising agency no less, where outdoing one another in the cleverness department is a job requirement. When that group card reaches my desk, I plow through the perfunctory signatures of the secretaries, the whimsical doodles of the art directors, the grandiose scribbles from the senior execs and carve out an unassuming little space for myself. I intentionally seek out an unobtrusive inch or two towards the left of the card. The less space the earlier signers have left me, the better. Because whatever amusing thoughts I believe I'm capable of conceiving, whatever Dorothy Parker-esque witticism I hear in my head, that which flows from my brain to pen to paper always is the same:

Happy birthday, Melissa! Hope this one is the best one yet!!

Exclamation points. Three of them. The mark of a true auteur.

I've thought about it a great deal and I think what it comes down is performance anxiety (or whatever anxiety there can be in signing a stupid greeting card that's already mostly written for you).

It's like someone meeting me and saying, "oh, you're that writer who did that piece about that funny thing? Say something funny!" I assure you the opposite will happen. I've always said I could never be a good stand-up comic like Nate because I'm only good on the rewrite. I'd get heckled and snap back, "oh yeah? Well um, you're...you're...MEAN!" And then I'd storm offstage and stew in the green room for ten minutes, only to double back, grab the mike out of the next performer's hand and say confidently, "what I MEANT to say was, do you kiss your boyfriend with that mouth, sir?"

I can generally write my way out of anything given enough time.

So perhaps that's the solution: Time. Maybe I need to tell the office manager, "I'm sorry. I'd be happy to sign your group card for Carole in accounting, but I need a good three months notice." For friends I'd like to give myself a year.

Hm, how do you think they'll feel celebrating their 34th birthdays at 35?

Something tells me it's a win-win situation.

N is for No, You Can't Date Until You're 35

I definitely feel like a bit of the old cranky lady in the corner booth at Denny's lately, the one who leaves a nickel tip and her her teeth in the water glass: I'm tired! Tattoos scare me! Hoodlums have taken over the internets!

I figured my completed transformation from dog collar-wearing teenager to irreverent young adult to fuddy-duddy parental unit deserved some sort of celebration. And so I had an entire post planned about the ultimate in "those darn kids today" p0p culture action, MTV's My Sweet Sixteen. I mean, an entire reality show dedicated to the half-million dollar birthday celebrations of ungrateful little whippersnappers? Comedy gold for a judgmental old fart like me.

Then I turned on Noggin.

It's not that Noggin is a problem, per se. I mean The Backyardigans? I got no beef with them. But apparently at 6pm, Noggin becomes the Fresh Prince of Bel Air Reruns for Tweens Channel, more formally known as The N. Their slogan is Real. Life. Now. Because hey, what's more "real life" than The Fresh Prince of Bel Air?

Last night The N ran a commercial for a game on their website called The Hook-Up. (Hookup, according to Wikipedia, denotes casual sexual activity outside the context of a romantic relationship.) The ad featured a well-coiffed but bookish teen (you can tell the nerdy girls by the glasses, you know) explaining that her time in the library will give her a chance to come up with a rumor to start about Amy "because I need to get my flirt on with Justin and she needs to back off."

Then the announcer copy goes on to say: "The Hook-Up. A game of charm and treachery and deceit. Where you do whatever it takes to hook up with your dream guy. So go ahead. Be as flirtatious and manipulative and outrageous as you want to be. No one has to know."

And that's when I decided that my daughter would be homeschooled and raised gay to the very best of our ability.

Of course I logged on (how could I resist?) and discovered the game is some kind of lo-tech Sims-meets-Mean Girls kind of thing. From the instructions:

How do you like being the new girl? You just got dropped into a town full of intrigue and romance and you'll need to play your cards right if you just want to survive, much less whip your rivals into shape and land yourself a man.

See, what I learned here is that "landing yourself a man" (not a boy, mind you) is now the key to peer approval these days. Forget landing a spot on the field hockey team, or landing student council Vice President--those must be goals leftover from the good old days when we wore bobby socks and drove Edsels to school. And the way you land a man in this game is simple--humiliate (their word) the other girls in order to render them less threatening; and talk to every boy you enounter, making sure to check your "journal" where you accrue knowledge about them. (He likes me! He makes his own hip-hop music!)

Am I just not in on the joke? I mean, maybe this is like Grand Theft Auto for the pre-menstrual set, a big satire on the state of teen books and movies and programming (EliminiDATE, anyone?) today. But if so, are the young women out there savvy enough to get it? And if not, are we as moms powerful enough to overcome the message?

I gotta say, I have a daughter. And I'm a little nervous here.

Bad Einstein

I couldn't resist - CityMama made me do it. You can too.

The Blog Meanies (Or: If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say, Go Punch Yourself in the Face.)

ARRRGGHHHHH!

That pretty much sums up my feelings about the trolls I keep encountering this week. Not on my blog specifically, although "anonymous" from Surrey, Prince Edward Island with isp 24.81.177.132 did take the time out of his busy day to tell me that my new mom haiku was "gay."

I don't quite understand why the anonymity of the internet brings out the dark, shadowy side of people, and in particular, the dark, shadowy side of mothers. Are mothers even supposed to have a dark, shadowy side? Man, I keep telling the government that they need to institute some NCLB-type standardized tests to determine the qualifications of potential moms:

1) Do you like to hurt small woodland creatures?
2) Has Jesus come to you at night and told you to give all your money to televangelists?
3) Do you post cruel and hurtful things to other mothers under the name anonymous on the internet?

If you have answered yes to any of these questions, proceed directly to therapy. Do not pass go, do not collect sperm anywhere near your cervix.

I'm confounded at what sort of personal fulfillment people get from attacking strangers online; and yes, I do think there is a level of satisfaction, some sort of power that some people derive from inflicting cruelty on perfectly nice people. I used to see it on message boards all the time and it's part of the reason I stopped going on them. It was unproductive at best, at worst it was contemptible.

The catalyst for my departure from one of the snarkier urban message boards was an incident where a woman posted about having suddenly lost her young child. Shocked, numb, and at a loss for words, she came to the board to ask for help writing the obituary. A few women, unable to give her the benefit of the doubt, chimed in with comments like "fake post" and "yeah right." With that, the bandwagon went careening down a hill with no driver, as the comments escalated into attacks like, "if you were for real, you would never be on a message board right now, and if you are then you're a complete f*king idiot."

The next morning the little girl's obituary was in the paper.

I still wonder whether it haunts the women who participated in the flaming that night. I would love to know whether they learned a lesson (one at someone else's expense no less) or whether they're just soulless enough to shrug it off. Or, worse, to place the blame back on the victim with "well if you can't stand the heat, stay off the message boards."

I see that same rationale now in blog comments all the time--don't blame me, you're the one who put yourself out there for criticism. I especially see it on the so-called bigger blogs. The Dooces, the Amalahs. As if those writers are just SO superhuman, SO emotionally impenetrable, that you can say whatever you want and they'll just have to take it so poop on them. It's throwing soda cans at the monkeys in the zoo.

Except we're not disfunctional pre-adolescent boys, we're moms. And we're supposed to be better than that.

I know I sound completely pollyanna-ish but is it so hard to think about how you make someone feel when you post a comment to them? There's a person behind those words. Someone's mother, someone's wife, someone's daughter. Maybe even someone you know but don't know you know.

Now wouldn't that be a kick.

Sometimes, when I'm having a crappy day and I get into the elevator at work ready to snarl at someone who asks me to hold the elevator for them for a whole three seconds, I stop and think, what if I get up to my office, this person follows me in, and it's actually a new client? Or our new receptionist? Or the boss's mother? It's a pretty good way to preempt any sort of bad behavior. Try it sometime.

Maybe there's a kind of twisted silver lining to the meanness. Like women are letting their bad selves fly in anonymous forums so that they don't do it to people in their "real" lives. Perhaps the women that post comments like the ones discussed here or here or here are just one cathartic, cruel comment away from beating their kid with a belt strap. Maybe we should all be pleased they're wounding with their words and not something that draws actual blood. I don't know. I'm open to other theories. This one has me stumped.

In the meanwhile, I'd like to propose coming up with a new term for troll. Troll connotes something powerful and mythic, the kind of thing you might be proud to sport on a tee-shirt for irony's sake. We need an expression with a little more stigma attached to it; a label people would rather not wear. I'm thinking NetHitler. Or StillPeesInPants.

Babies! Babies Everywhere!

New babies, in the mommyblogging world? What are the chances? Go wish these mamas well-- you know if you're into that sort of "being nice to new moms" thing.

Kristina Brooke, new mom to Mya Therese

Mrs. Fortune, new mom to Jacob Paul.

To-do list: Publish post, brush teeth, sleep for days.

I'm spent. Physically and emotionally. Just home from business trip #67848, which included a super-fabulous ALL-NIGHTER! Ah yes, the very glamorous world of advertising where sometimes the shoots start at 8pm and end at sun-up. There wasn't even a good craft service table, which is pretty much the only reason to work in production in the first place. We had to make do with some stale, melted and recongealed chocolate minis; a platter of soggy pb&j sandwiches on white; and a crockpot of lukewarm hotdogs floating in smelly old water. Good times. And did I eat all of it? Yes I did.

Let me just add, there's nothing quite as bad as making that walk of shame back to your hotel room in clothes from the night before, when you didn't even get lucky. The bellmen are tossing me wry smiles and knowing nods and I'm like, not even.

So now all I want to do is rebond with the baby and sleep on demand and have everyone around me love me and stroke my hair and tell me I'm pretty and feed me cheesecake. I'm days behind on blogs, let alone Sopranos, so please forgive me if I haven't been the dilligent reader/commenter/supporter I generally try to be.

Okay, now note the not-so-seamless transition about to follow here--I'd be the perfect local news producer, giving the anchors copy like, "...that totals forty-seven new casualties on this, a most brutal day in Iraq. And coming up next, the latest in rhinestone fashions for your pet!"




Please check out Cool Mom Picks. We ("we" meaning 5% me and 95% Kristen, the blogworld's human power station) have worked ridiculously hard at the redesign and it's finally up and running. And not too shabby if I do say so myself. If you haven't yet been there, CMP is a cheeky shopping blog for hip mamas (and a few confident-in-their-sexuality counterparts) with an emphasis on great design, mom-run businesses and causes we believe in. Plus it's got some kick-ass writing from some of the bloggers you already know and love.

Eh, what's one more site on your rss feed, right?

Mom-101 out.

Earlybird Special, Here I Come!

I remember the turning point.

It was easily 15 years ago, and I was watching Blossom. (Hold your laughter please.) Blossom broke curfew and her dad grounded her. My immediate reaction was, Good, your dad was worried sick about you!

Last week I caught a 9 year old boy in an Eminem shirt as he chowed down on a slice of pepperoni with his parents. Now I like Eminem. I appreciate the irony, this character he's created, the wit and rhythm of his rhyming schemes. But he does sing lyrics like I'll slit your motherfuckin throat worse than Ron Goldman.

Yesterday I saw a girl, about fifteen, checking out of my hotel with her parents. (Ah yes, I'm traveling again. But I figure I'm well over my quota of boohoohoo I'm traveling and miss the baby posts for the year, so I'm skipping right over that part.) She was adorable, clean-cut with pink capris grazing her narrow calves and her long straight hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was holding her dad's hand, but you could sense just a hint of that brazen teenage rebellion brewing up in her.

And then I noticed the tattoo around her ankle. A chain of green-black stars with the clean lines of new needlework. My first thought was: How old is that girl?

My second thought was: What the hell is that father thinking?

My third thought was: Oh my God. I'm going to start collecting Hummels and saying "cockadoodie" any moment now, aren't I.

Can I Get a "Kumbaya?"

I gotta say, I'm completely digging the comaraderie I'm seeing in the blogworld these days. Not the support for me and my amateurish parenting decisions per se, but the whole let's prick our fingers and rub the blood together while singing You've Got a Friend and braiding each other's hair vibe that's going around.

It's as if these warm fuzzies we're giving one another across the ether is as good as calling up all those tv reporters, all those journalists perpetrating this absurd mommywar non-story and saying Ha! I spit on your divisive propaganda! Although I'd say it with some sort of indistinct European accent, so it would come out more like I speet on your deeviseef propagahnda! Just for effect.

When I started Mom-101 three months ago to the day, I approached it like a columnist. I figured it was like scoring an editorial job (okay, unpaid internship) without having to endure a scary interview where I'd have to suck in my stomach for 45 minutes and discuss my "vision." I knew blogging would give me a forum in which to write; I had no idea it would give me a community. If you had told me a few months back that I'd be headed to a conference this summer? To discuss blogging? With BLOGGERS? I'd have laughed. Laughed out loud and rolled my eyes and made that gutteral Yiddish chhhhhhh sound that Nate makes when I tell him he's handsome.

And yet, here you are. The Community.

What you have to know is that you do more for me than you can imagine, really. Beyond the advice, beyond the stimulating debate, beyond the grace with which you permit me to continue believing that I have the cutest, smartest, most delightful child who ever graced this planet or any other--you give me the impetus to continue writing. And this last little bit is what keeps my soul alive.

Or, as they said back in the old country, Mommywars my tuchus.

Your participation here is invaluable because, as I've mentioned before, I'm not the kind of writer who can create just for myself. I have stacks of dusty journals filled with idea starters, creative sparks, writing germs that never went beyond that initial flush of excitement that conjoined pen and paper for a few brief moments.

It kills me to admit this, by the way. To acknowledge that I'm not more inner-directed is like admitting I'm not a Real Writer. A Real Writer is angry and independent, free from social expectations. A Real Writer hates parties. (And she has bad hair anyway, so who would want her at their parties?) A Real Writer is reclusive and asocial; she will shut herself away in a friend's lakeside cabin, happy to see noone but the ashen-faced postman for weeks on end until she finishes her manuscript or runs out of Camel unfiltereds, whichever comes first. A Real Writer, or so I was led to believe by misguided writing instructors, doesn't care what you think about anything she has to say.

But we live by our own rules, we writers of the blog world. Especially we mommy (or insert word of choice meaning female parental figure) bloggers. Women bond. We share. We discuss. That's who we are. It's in our DNA. I would venture to guess that most of us need approval in some way or another. Who amongst us doesn't get a little thrill from a sitemeter bump or a new blogroll mention?

And this is why I love the monthly Perfect Post award. It gives me a chance to pay the kindness forward by calling your attention to writers with audiences disproportionate to the size of their talent.

This month I was torn between two Perfect Posts. And so Lucinda and MamaK, the originators of this wonderful honor, have allowed me to nominate both of them.

First I'd like to introduce you to the lovely and prolific Siobhan Connally (aka ToyFoto) if you are not yet acquainted. Her essay, The Other Mommy has stayed with me since I read it several weeks ago. Inspired by the feminism discussions of the past month, Siobhan offers a refreshing perspective with this wonderful, almost supernatural story of how her children's caretaker came into their lives. Besides, is that like the coolest name ever? Siobhan? Don't you totally want to meet someone named Siobhan? It's not even pronounced Sy-oh-ban, which makes it all the more intriguing.

Secondly, if you haven't blogmarked 8 Hours, you're missing out. Binky is one of the first bloggers I discovered on my first day at it, and she has yet to disappoint. Lifestyles of the Penniless and Overlooked is as good as any Augusten Burroughs memoir, with lines like It's a sad state of affairs when my husband and I are the rock that keeps an entire neighborhood from blowing away in a gust of crazy. Every comment I seem to write to her these days is some variation of "More! More!" so I invite you to say something better. Frankly, I think she's getting a little sick of the repetition.

Go. Enjoy. Be nice. You know you want to.

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Edited to add: Okay, so my dad constantly reminds me that what goes around comes around. But I always assumed that the coming around part took some time. You know, for the universe to process the reward system or whatnot. I stand corrected. WordGirl, another wonderful writer in her own right, has nominated one of my posts for A Perfect Post. Who knew? Prizes for everyone!

If you've already read it (or even if you haven't), go visit WordGirl instead. She's smart, she's funny, and she looks like Candice Bergen. Jealous much? Yes, I am.