The Perfect Post, Second only to the Perfect Schtup

Blog contests, schmog contests. I'm not a huge fan. Unless I'm winning one in which case Hoorah for blog contests! Love em! I want to shirk all responsibilities, strip down to my underwear and roll around on my bed in blog contests all day long!

But this one is different. It's called A Perfect Post and it was started by two people who seem to get it.

Essentially any blogger can give the award to any other blogger's post from the past month. In this case, I'm that any blogger, and that other blogger is the lovely Ms. Blog Antagonist. I fell in love with her amazing essay (calling it post seems to diminish it), North and South which I easily read four times when she posted it on March 25. It's a beautifully crafted and hilarious reflection on the "yawning chasm of cultural divergence" between she and her Southern, cowboy hat-wearing, stree-ked meat eating husband back in their early days together.

Go. Read. Enjoy. Comment.

My Favorite Fruit, Apple

Dear Apple,

Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you, a million times over for your amazing isight webcam. For less than the cost of a Jet Blue ticket to the coast, I was able to spend an entire half hour with my little girl when I woke up this morning.

Thank you for allowing me see her rub her eyes, as a reminder that her dad kept her up past her morning naptime just for me. Thank you for allowing me to watch her clap, even though she still isn't mastering the whole palms-coming-together aspect of clapping. Thank you for letting me hear just one little aiiieeeeeeee. Thank you for letting me see her model her new Yankees shirt and her new Yankees onesie and her new Yankees hat. And along the same vein, thank you for giving me a heads up about the state of my forthcoming Amex bill.

Also thank you for letting me catch a glimpse of my English Bulldog, Emily, who I have yet to introduce to the blogworld, which is probably why she's taken to peeing on the bathroom floor every night as of late. And of course, thank you for giving me a few moments with my partner Nate, even if all he really wanted to do was see my boobs.

If you ever need a not too horrible-looking middle-aged woman with a post-partum belly roll and flabby triceps but pretty good calves to be your spokesperson in your next TV commercial, just say the word. I will work for scale and promise not to bogart the MnMs at the craft service table.

Yours truly,
Mom-101



P.S. I almost forgot to thank you for my first celebrity sighting in L.A. It was a pleasure watching former NBA star and itunes artist Wayman Tisdale performing songs from his new album, Hang Time, yesterday in your Beverly Center store. It made me glad I had reapplied lipstick in my car before entering the mall.

Far from home, days 1-2

A brief note about Monday's comments (the kindness of which rendered me temporarily paralyzed): I've never been told in my life that I have good hair. In fact I spent my formative years doing an uncanny Magenta impression from Rocky Horror. That comment alone was worth the agony of deciding whether to post a photo. Thank you for that.

----------

I have made it to LA. I can almost feel my lips swelling with collagen-injected empathy as we speak.

What you don't know is that I arrived here by way of Orlando, destination of choice for middle-aged couples in matching lavender plaid Bermuda shorts. (Note: If you are wearing a t-shirt that says chick magnet, you are decidedly not.)

Here's how my extendatrip began:

Outside Delta Song gate 24, Charlie Brown's teacher came over the PA to announce wah wah wah WAH wah wah WAHWAH all seats may now board. And so I got on line. I was eager to get comfortable, score a pillow, settle in for a few brutal rounds of in-flight trivia against the other passengers (gotta love those TV screens at your seat). However when I reached the the front of the line, I was told that all seats were not boarding and I should step aside, ma'am, until we call your group number, which is nine. And so I stepped aside and waited.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

No one left in the entire terminal except me.

Still waiting.

Still waiting.

I approached the front again, asking politely whether I might get on the plane. The troll-like ticket agent craned what she had of a neck from side to side, scanning the waiting area. Then in one of those you-can't-make-this-stuff-up moments, looked me right in the eyes and belted into her microphone, "NOW BOARDING GROUP NINE. GROUP NINE, YOU'RE FREE TO BOARD."

Group nine--me--stepped up to the gate. "Group nine?" she asked sweetly like she had never seen me before. Then she waved me through.

And oh, I did get off that plane as trivia champion of Delta Song flight 2008, narrowly edging out CHAD in seat 12E with a lucky 500-pointer about the team occupying Miller Stadium. (Answer: A. Milwaukee Brewers) Do not ever challenge my ability to fill valuable grey matter with useless factoids, CHAD. I will take you down.

My night was spent in the Bates Motel-like accomodations where my client had seen fit to store me for the night. The mattress felt like the stuffing had been removed and replaced with crumpled cardboard. While I was freezing all night, it seemed a better solution than pulling the coverlet over me; who knows what bodily fluids and unknown substances might have been revealed by an eager 20-20 investigative reporter armed with a black light. And I am not sure how it is possible to wake up every half hour hearing someone thumping around on the floor above, when you are STAYING ON THE UPPERMOST FLOOR, but somehow that was the case. I don't think I'll be returning any time soon.

The motel was located on scenic International Drive (that's I-Drive to you, my one Orlando-area reader). Imagine the love child of an illicit tryst between Times Square and the food court of your local mall, and you've pretty much got I-Drive. The funniest place there (and that's saying a lot) is a retail establishment called Bargain World that was built in the shape of a flying saucer. My coworker Mike and I have imagined their low-budget local ads as something like this:

Open on two men dressed like aliens. Green make-up, sparkles on face, bouncy antennas headbands, cheap silver space suits. They speak in a staccato tone, overenunciating each word in the style of the Coneheads.

ALIEN ONE: Meep meep. Meeeeeeep meep meep meep. Meep meep meep.

ALIEN TWO: That means we come from space. To bring you bargains.

ALIEN ONE: Meepmeepmeep. Meeeeeep. Meep meep.

ALIEN TWO: That means low low prices. Every day.

ALIENS IN UNISON: Bargain World. The bargains are out of this woooooooorld!

Sadly, on this trip we discovered that the flying saucer had been replaced with a pedestrian, boxy building. We can only assume that the mothership took off into the universe in search of more bargains.

Mike, by the way, is one of the best business travel companions you could ask for. While he kicks ass in a meeting, he's also the guy who eggs you into having just one more cocktail (which is never just one more), laughs too loud even when sober, and generally insures that I'm having fun instead of staring mournfully at my daughter's picture on my cell phone. He's also Irish. Enough said?

Mike is one of those Blackberry addicts, which made for some great Mike laughing too loud moments in the Orlando airport on the way to the other coast, particularly as his Blackberry began to show signs of demise.

Oh no! The spinning hourglass of doom. And what's that line? Has it flatlined for good?

20 minutes without the Blackberry. Mike starts to get the shakes.
Drastic measures are called for and compressions begin.

The situation deteriorates further. Mouth to PDA resuscitation begins.
The old lady reading Danielle Steele across from us is not amused.

Our efforts were not for naught. The patient lives!
Time for a cocktail.

As you might be able to tell, were just a little punchy. Five hours of very interrupted sleep followed by seven straight hours of client meetings in a windowless conference room will do that to you.

We should never be allowed to upgrade to first class.

Mom-101, International Woman of Mystery (Or maybe she just has a really big hairy mole)

A few years back, while listening to Kiss From a Rose for the 45,395th time, I opened the Seal CD case to try and determine whether the line was "kiss from the grave" or "kiss from the grey." Instead of clarity on the lyrics (dammit!) I found this bit of commentary:

One of the most popular questions people seem to ask is "Why don't you print your lyrics on the album?" Well, the answer to that is quite often, my songs mean one thing to me and another to the listener... How many times have you fallen in love with a lyric that you thought went, "Show me a day with Hilda Ogden and I'll despair," only to find that it went "Show me a way to solve your problems and I'll be there." I guess what I'm saying is that the song is always larger in the listeners' mind because with it they attach imagery which is relative to their own personal experience. So it is your perception of what I'm saying rather than what I actually say that is the key.

This gives me a perfect understanding of what Heidi Klum sees in Seal. It also rather aptly explains why there have been no photos of me on this blog to date.

Every time I consider posting a photo of Thalia and me together, I hesitate. Not for any sort of anonymity reasons--plenty of "real life" friends have this URL. The truth is, I like being a voice. Just a voice. A voice free from any preconceptions of what a person like me should be saying or how I should be saying it. A blank canvas onto which any reader can project his or her own imagery. It may be the one time in my life that this is possible.

For all you know, I'm mousey and invisible (I'm not). I have big hair, big nails, and a big Long Island accent to match (I don't). I'm a petite, pasty little thing with a black Theda Bara bob (nope) or a six-foot amazon tanning booth blonde with boobs that point to the sky (not even). I have a hump (hey!) or a full-grown moustache (watch it there...) with two curly chin hairs and a bald patch over my left ear. (Now that's enough! And just when I thought we were getting to be friends.)

And I wonder were I to actually be any of these things whether it would color your impression of what I have to say here each day.

It might. And maybe even in a good way.

I love having a picture of David Sedaris in my head, so I can place a face with his voice as we play the audio book of Barrel Fever on long car rides. In fact if David Sedaris looked less like David Sedaris and more like Viggo Mortensen, I'd find his memoirs less accessible. I'm equally glad I can picture Paul Krugman or Anna Quindlen when I read their editorials. Even Ann Coulter, if only so that when I see her in person, I can be sure to accidentally run into her while holding something sharp.

And God, do I love knowing what Sweetney and Amalah and Alice look like.; they all look exactly as they should.

But I also know that our impressions of writing can be skewed negatively based on our perception of the writer. My tenth grade English teacher, after reading my Julius Caesar analysis, wrote SEE ME. PLAGIARISM? over top of the essay and handed it back without a grade. Apparently something so coherent couldn't have possibly come from the attention-deficit case in the back wearing the army jacket and the rhinestone dog collar. (Ha! Coherent--that was one of the SAT words we studied in your class, Mrs. Archer, you old bat. See, I was paying attention. At least when I wasn't passing notes about your shameless flirting with Jimmy Glasheen.)

I admit to having my own biases about writers based on their looks. I'm less apt to read a business blog from a man who looks like he's never had a haircut costing more than $6; nor would I take fashion recommendations from woman in a scrunchie. I confess to a certain lack of interest in very young, very blonde bloggers, even before I realize they use no punctuation like this and write run on sentences like this and spell things rong like thiss and write i like i and not like I. Something about their snapshots (generally accompanied by three friends, each of them with that glassy-eyed, six-too-many-White Russians look) tells me move along, nothing to see here. Judgmental? You bet. Sorry about that.

So maybe you'll look at a picture of me and also invoke your biases. You'll think pfffft, she doesn't look funny at all. Or hmm, I thought she'd be skinnier/fatter/taller/prettier. Or harumph, I would never like her in real life because looks just like that loser whose ass I kicked in junior high.

But I'm realizing that that doesn't really matter. Even while I do occasionally cling to the fantasy of being all things to all people, I am what I am what I am. And so I'm unmasking. Less for you than for me.

It may seem counterintuitive in the blogworld, but I believe disclosure is liberating. It compels me to be as truthful as I possibly can. And this, as I see it, this is the first obligation of the memorist.

Besides, the BlogHer conference is coming up. Knowing me, I'll have too many Coronas and not enough mini quiches one night and end up on dozens of blogs as That Girl in That Photo, belting out Copacabana on the bar with a shoe for a microphone. I'm just trying to beat my snap-happy cohorts to the punch and manage the spin. First impressions go a long way.

I hope this doesn't change things between us.

I finally found an appropriate use for one of those ticker thingies

Aw, don't feel bad. He'll really be so much happier on the plantati...er, ranch.

Way to talk a woman off the ledge

I've said it before, my readers are the most brilliant in all the world. The evidence, from the comments on Friday's WOHM Depression Jamboree:

There are so many support groups out there for SAHMs but none for working moms. I guess we're too busy and tired to attend. -Christina

Kids love and need quality time. Not quantity time. -MegaMom

Part of being a parent: our lives are harder to make their lives better. - Mrs. Chicky

The books do everyone a serious disservice by asserting that there are really only three emotional states after childbirth: bliss, baby blues, or PPD. -2BadLadies

Motherhood is a work-in-progress -Sam

I missed a lot of things that I felt were musts, but I also got to be there for the finished product, after the dress rehearsal, so to speak -Mel

You give her quality time when you can, and as long as she knows she holds the biggest piece of your heart? Nothing else matters. -Puppytoes

The firsts? Not as important as the Always. - Dawn

Through it all, our kids are gonna be fine. It's us I worry about. -Tracey

Your baby is loved. And what the books don't really tell you is that's your only job: love. -scarbie doll

I am awed by the insightfulness, the eloquence, the compassion. Either you're all reading better books than I am, or you're secretly writing one yourself. If so, let me know. I'll plug you hard at Cool Mom Picks.

It was just what I needed to stop beating myself up. Well, that and the pint of hot sake that I convinced my local sushi joint to deliver in a plastic takeout container last night along with the spicy tuna rolls. Nothing like a little illegally-obtained hooch to send you running from the dark side.

Over the next few weeks I'll be blogging from my undisclosed secret location in West Hollywood, home of intoxicated, aging rock stars and the $14 Belgian waffle. I guarantee at least one real celeb sighting this time. Maybe even with pictures. I certainly owe you that much.

I did not expect this.

Those baby books are crap. Each and every one of them. They don't prepare you at all and I want to know who I can sue.

Yes, they tell you about burping techniques and diaper rash prevention and the thirty-two patented breastfeeding holds, but they don't even come close to preparing you for the real issues that parents face. Issues like working so late every night that you come home when your baby has already been in bed two hours, then wanting to kiss her but knowing you will wake her up and then you'll get yelled at.

Issues like waking your baby up but not having the time to lie in bed with her to get her back to sleep because you still have more work to do.

Issues like leaving her in the hands of the most committed and loving stay-at-home dad in the world but still feeling neglectful for not being there yourself.

Issues like admitting you can't do it all, which means by definition that something gets left in the dust-- your relationship, your child, your work or yourself.

Issues like packing for a two-and-a-half week business trip to LA when you haven't even unpacked from the last one.

Issues like knowing you will have six whole days before your baby joins you on your trip, and that means six days of the first tooth popping through the gum. Six days of the bald head becoming ever so slightly less bald. Six days of missing "cat" and "ha" and "aieeeeeeyiyiyiyi"--and God forbid "dog" which seems to be in the works. Six days of not even having the possibility of kissing her goodnight late at night if you wanted to, even though you wouldn't because it will wake her up and then you'll get yelled at.

Issues like calling your issues "issues" in order to avoid acknowledging that what they really are, are problems. Big, fat, guilt-inducing, sucky ass, no-book-said-anything-about-this problems.

Issues/problems like not even wanting to vent about your issues/problems because it's not like you're the first working mom to ever go through this in history, ya know.

That is what to expect the first year.

Six Degrees of Holy Crap

Nate: You know that guy, that bouncer who raped and killed that woman?

Me: Yeah, he was just indicted today.

Nate: Well you know where he worked?

Me: In Soho?

Nate: At my Redskins bar. Where I went every Sunday.

Me: Oh my God.

Nate: I know.

Me: Did you have any contact with him?

Nate: Well once he almost threw me out of the bar because I got pissed and threw my hat and it hit the TV.

Me: Oh my God.

Nate: Yeah.

(beat)

Me: Don't do that anymore.

Poetic Suckitude

In only a few brief months of blogging, I have discovered that people like me best when I suck. I write horribly embarrassing things about myself and suddenly everyone's all, Be my best friend! No, pick me! No, me--I have a pool and my mom lets us eat Cheetos for dinner!

Which is why I have been utterly delighted with the disclosure of bad poetry around here in recent days (some of which is not all that bad, I might add). I see it as just another opportunity for me to reveal more personal suckocity, thus inspiring further love and admiration.

But first, a preface.

Before I was even old enough to hold a pencil, my mom encouraged me to write. On cold weekend mornings, I curled up on the wooden radiator cover in the kitchen, one cheek pressed against the smooth warm wood while I devised rhyme schemes. I recited them to my mother who stood over me, dutifully copying my words into a marbled composition book labeled Poetry. The title was a bit of an exaggeration, as you will soon agree, but this, as I now know, is a mother's prerogative.

By the time I was five or so, I started filling in the books with my own shaky two-inch tall words. Sometimes these words came together in sentences that made a certain amount of sense; sometimes, not so much. It's this last category, these morsels of metrical ineptitude that I share with you today.

The year: 1974. I was six.

Look look there's something funny
It looks like a bunny
It looks like a bear
It's sitting in a chair
Oh no, that's not all
But no no it's over there now
Hi, there's the town
in a frown
but...where's the chair?
So nothing could be sitting down!!
So if you want to know this poem
in the town or anywhere
just write it down
just sitting in or on a chair.

Notice the subtle transition from an AABB rhyme scheme into free-form prose then back again? Notice the philosophical ponderings of a six year-old grappling with the concept that with no chair there is just no sitting down? Need I even elaborate on the metaphorical imagery of a town in a frown? Future valedictorian, my parents must have thought. MENSA make room, we're on our way.

But wait, as they say, there's more.

Oh, oh, there's a show
but I can't go
because of the snow
and oh oh oh dear
I still can't go
because I am here
and because there's a mouse
in and under my blouse.

This piece clearly foreshadows my future as a copywriter who would one day earn a living by answering the question, what else rhymes with "Zestfully clean?" It also portends the sensual enjoyment of rodents that I experience to this very day.

Sadly however, the best piece in the composition book was not mine at all, but that of my four-year old brother. These thirty-some odd years I had always remembered it as my opus, my greatest work, only to have that misconception shattered as my mother read it back to me last night. I'm still in a bit of shock if you must know. But I share it with you nonetheless, as evidence of the profound poetic sucktasticness that runs in the family.

It is entitled Circle Perkel.

Circle perkel on the bed.
Circle perkel do what you're said.
Circle perkel there's your friend.
Circle perkel don't hit him on the head
Circle perkel you're on the bed again
Circle perkel he's hitting the pan.

Oh, what's that? What's that I hear? Why that's the sound of Harper-Collins bitch-slapping Random House over the publishing rights. Thalia, looks like you're not going to community college after all.

___

Edited to add: It seems that indeed memory served me correctly. Cercle Perkel was in fact my own creation and not my brother's. My legacy is intact. 

Two-fer Tuesday

I wasn't going to post today because I already have a post at Suburban Turmoil (where I still want you to go now now now NOW) but I have something I just can't resist sharing.

I call this Why I Love My Man.

You see I forwarded Nate this nice little write-up I found about my blog (which you do or don't have to read) and this was his email response to me, verbatim:

THAT SUCKS!!!!!!!!

I hate it when underground cool things that I like get discovered,
and then everyone's all like "yeah, I've liked them since they first
came out....", but then I'm like "no way man, I liked them before
they even came out, and when they were just forming", and then
they're like "oh yeah? Well I liked them before they even thought of
the idea, from when they were still in school", so then I'm all
"yeah, that's nothing, I've liked them from before they were even
born, we were friends in Heaven, and I promised to be their first fan
when we were on Earth and they started up" and then they're like
"Yeah, but...." and then I slit their throat with a straight razor,
and they're all "aaagghhaaaarrraaablllllllllaaaaaagggggggrrrrraaaaa" so then I win.....

But in your case I've [profane act removed] you more recently than anyone else has (that I know of), so I win #1 fan by default.....

Is he awesome or what?

Go away.

I need to ask you a favor. Not that I have any right to ask anything of you because really, what have I done for you lately? But still.

Please go to Suburban Turmoil. Right now, this very minute.

I'm guest blogging for Lucinda today while she's off on vacation and if her site meter drops down to like two readers while I'm taking care of her place she'll have me killed. She told me she will. She knows people.

That's what it's like in the suburbs, or so I hear. Scary stuff.

Hear Me Roar

I have presented across intimidatingly large conference tables to bold-letter names you've seen on the cover of Newsweek or in the pages of People.

I have cheered for the Yankees right outside Fenway Park, while men with names like Sully threatened me with bodily harm to a degree disproportionate to the offense committed.

I have battled severe dehydration on a rafting trip in the Grand Canyon, narrowly avoiding transport by Medevac.

I have survived 8 straight weeks of mean girls at Camp Wicosuta.

I have endured a third cup of Turkish coffee in the Stari Grad of Sarajevo.

I have quit smoking. Five times.

I have meandered through the Houston airport with an anti-Bush button front and center on my handbag.

I have walked the gauntlet known as the Sale at Fred Segal.

And I have grown a 6 pound-15 ounce human being from scratch, hustled her down the birth canal, and pushed her out my vajoojee into the world.

But my most Sisyphean challenge to date: Convincing Nate to let this same human being cry for a few minutes in her crib at bedtime.

Give me strength.

Los Angeles: The highlights (which isn't saying much)

THURSDAY
10:01 am Flight lands early. Man who looks almost like someone famous helps me with my bag, proving that chivalry is not dead amongst the almost famous-looking set.

10:45 am Hit my max speed on the 405.

I think a hitchhiker in a wheelchair just passed me on the shoulder.

11:05 am Arrive at my office, where I conclude that since I've last been here, they've instituted a weight limit for the female employees. For every pound exceeding the designated weight (somewhere around 100, 105) you are forced to replace one meal with one non-fat latte and four cigarettes.

11:08 am Show coworkers photo of baby on my cell phone.

1:00 pm The Big Meeting, which includes a fine deli platter. Spongey rolls. Sinus-clearing mustard. Fudgy brownies.

3:34 pm The Big Meeting concludes. It is deemed successful. Skinny girls flood the conference room and make quick work of the leftover lemon bars and fudgy brownies.

3:38 pm Show coworkers photo of baby on my cell phone.

6:00 pm Traffic.

6:15 pm Traffic.

6:30 pm Traffic.

6:45 pm Traffic.

7:08 pm The greatest words any weary traveler can ever hope to hear: Please accept this bottle of wine with our compliments.

8:00 pm My first celebrity sightings! Debra Messing, Eric McCormack, Megan Mullally, and Sean Hayes--all right in my hotel room.

9:12 pm Room service arrives with my hummus-tziziki platter. (Only in L.A.) Show room service guy photo of baby on my cell phone. Room service guy looks almost like George Lopez.

9:35 pm Look, the lamp is vibrating...LOOK THE LAMP IS VIBRATING! Omigod, earthquake. Omigodomigodomigod. Stand in doorway. No wait...hide under table. No wait...call front desk. No wait...first I have to save my blog post. Omigodomigodomi...Hey wait, if it's an earthquake, how come the ceiling lamps aren't swaying?

9:37 pm Downstairs guests turns their stereo down. Room stops vibrating.

FRIDAY
5 am Nooooooo! No no no no no!

5:10 am No! No!

5:24 am Dammit.

6:00 am Local news story about the concern that one's pet might be fat. Somewhere in Santa Monica, a doggie spa owner rejoices, raises prices.

9:30 am Reluctantly forgo the $14 Belgian waffle in favor of scrambled eggs. Eavesdrop on two junior talent agents trading MAJOR gossip. Like:

-The guys from Scrubs like The Office and vice versa.
-King Kong was not very good.
-Good Night and Good Luck was subtle.
-"Jennifer Aniston whisperwhisperwhisper isn't that nuts?"

9:43 am "Welcome back Ms. G! Did you bring the rain with you, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."

11:45 am A trip to Universal Studios Hollywood for work. (I know! How fun is work?) I keep my sunglasses on through the rain. I am so very L.A.

"You and Me and Dupree"? Jackpot, baby.

Universal Picture's Greatest epics: Jaws. Blues Brothers.
Psycho. Something with Will Ferrell in a track suit.

Paris and Nichole used to live here.

"Here's a million dollar idea, Bill--let's show the tourists a replica
of a wreckage of the very plane they'll be flying home on the next day!"

I told you not to make fun of my third nipple.

3:00 pm

Can't we just...pull over for...quickly...no? Okay.

6:25 pm Two Coronas, no dinner. Show remaining coworkers photo of my baby on my cell phone.

9:30 pm Intercept drunk girl who moonwalks into me in hotel lobby. Try to determine whether she looks like someone famous. She doesn't.


SATURDAY
5:04 am Noooooooo!

5:12 am Dammit.

7:50 am Refill the gas in my rental car for maybe the first time ever.

8:20 am Almost celebrity sightings at the airport: Almost Jessica Simpson, Almost Camryn Manheim, Almost William Hung.

8:25 am Guard at airport security checkpoint takes my id, says, "Thanks for the smile! You're only the second person to smile all morning." I respond, "Well who wouldn't smile when they've got a beautiful baby waiting for them at home."

8:25 am The tears. Oh, the tears.

8:55 am The BK breakfast biscuit. Oh, the BK breakfast biscuit.

9:05 am Run into old friend and coworker who's on my flight. I instantly regret wearing my "plane jeans."

6:04 pm, EST Exit the plane. Former coworker tells me that her seatmate blurted to her, "I sense that you are a very creative person. And the lord just told me to tell you that he is going to give you more ideas than the ones you have now."

6:30 pm My cab turns onto the BQE, and I glimpse the green Empire State Building illuminating the skyline across the East River. I am mere minutes from a big plate of full-fat ravioli, and my warm, beautiful, smiling, cat-saying baby. Life is so very very good.

Although I must confess I will miss the city where women have no qualms wearing this:

It was bound to happen.

The first word. Cat. Clear as day.

She articulated it quite deliberately as she examined two cute white kitties in a cage at Petco, Nate tells me.

I'm not entirely surprised; Thalia had been working on cat for days now. The fascinating part to me is that she was able to identify two cute white kitties as the same species as the horrible hissing black beast she usually sees around the house.

It's not as if I didn't get my own awesome experience in its stead. Why right at that very same moment that my daughter was uttering her first word yesterday, I was somewhere over the Rockies, staring across the airplane cabin at a guy who looked almost like a celebrity.

That kind of thing happens on the New York to LA flights all the time. It's crazy that way.

City of Angels and High-Colonics

For the next few days, I will be not be blogging from the more affordable side of the Brooklyn Bridge, but from that magical land of fake boobs and fake noses and fake professions of love.

Yes, Ellay is everything you think it is and more. Why you can hardly swing a cat without hitting an US Weekly cover girl. I would know because in Beverly Hills, swinging cats outside the Coffee Bean passes for fun. That's just how wacky it is out there. They gargle with their own urine too. (And I'm not making that up - one international leading lady confessed as much to me one drunken night over Schnapps shots.)

The truth is, while some of you might imagine that my days and nights will be spent doing wild, illegal, and dangerous things with very famous and important people in a hillside bungalow at the Chateau, the reality is a little different.

I will be working in an office where the windows don't open--perhaps not a horrible thing considering the smoggy goodness of the LA air quality. I will be meeting with people who may or may not want to be meeting with me. I will be trying to smile through the jet lag. I will get funny looks from waiters when I order things with ALL the sugar and ALL the fat. And I will be missing my daughter extraordinarily.

This will be my third overnight business trip away from Thalia. And I try to remember that there are indeed a few benefits to heading west tout seul:

-Two glorious nights with no parallel-parked baby kicking me in the head repeatedly
-Someone else to make the bed
-$14 Belgian waffles that I don't have to pay for
-Cruising down Sunset in a Mustang convertible (hopefully not a banana-yellow one like that one time) knowing that at any red light, I just may find myself next to Sally Struthers
-Six uninterrupted hours on a plane to do the Sunday Times crossword
-Spicy tuna rolls-a-plenty
-Time with a few friends and family who I don't see nearly enough, including my about-to-be-ridiculously-successful cousin, the screenwriter (in today's Jewish families, screenwriters are the new doctors, dontcha know)
-Bailey's in the minibar
-Corona in the minibar
-Coppola Chardonnay in the minibar
-Feeling like myself again, even if just for thirty seconds at a time when I get so caught up in life/work/Coppola Chardonnay that I forget I have a baby.

However there's one huge con that gives all the pros a run for their money:

-Feeling guilty for those thirty seconds when I get so caught up in life/work/Coppola Chardonnay that I forget I have a baby.

We will see how this trip goes.

The Lyrically Challenged

I don't know the lyrics to half the songs that get stuck in my head and even when I do know them, I find myself singing them incorrectly.

While I am in fact cognizant that it is not "wrapped up like a douche" but "revved up like a deuce," I am still inclined to sing the former. This goes double for "I don't wanna work. I wanna bang honky girls all day." Again, I know that Mr. Rundgren was not composing an upbeat little ditty about vigorous intimate relations with young Caucausian females; but ever since a seventh grade friend confided the misheard lyric to me, I've preferred it to the real one. Banging honky girls? Fun! Banging on the drums? Booooo-ring.

But now with an infant, this whole wrong-lyric business has evolved into another beast entirely. I cannot belt out a single melody any more without perverting the lyrics into something twisted and horrible. It's like a disease. Weird Al Disease.

I place the blame squarely on my daughter and her developmentally-appropriate lack of verbal skills. When your kid can't yet talk back, the one-way dialogue can get tedious pretty quickly. So I do what I'm sure (I hope) other parents do--put my every thought to music. Mercilessly. Tunelessly. With no regard for rhyme, cadence, or syncopation. And certainly not for my own self-respect.

Real lyric: Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est...fa fa fa faaaaa fa fafafa faaaa fa
My lyric: Pears and oatmeal, q'uest-ce que c'est...yum yum yum yuuuum yum

Real lyric: M-m-m-my Sharonah
My lyric: M-m-m-my pajamas

Real lyric: It's my life...it's now or never. I ain't gonna live forever. I just want to live while I'm aliiiiiive.
My lyric: It's your hat...it's now or never. You ain't gonna wear it forever. I'll just put it on you 'cause it's coooooold.

Sometimes I throw the cadence out the window entirely--I have an uncanny ability to fit six or seven syllables where only one should be.

Real lyric: Doctor doctor, give me the news I've got a bad case of loving you.
My lyric: Doctor doctor, give me the news I've got a bad case of chewing on the cell phone.

Real lyric: I'm gonna live forever, I'm gonna learn how to fly- HIGH!
My lyric: I'm gonna change your diaper, I'm gonna put some Aquaphor on your butt right now- NOW!

Once in a while I manage to preserve the original rhyme and cadence. These are my masterpieces, but they're few and far between.

Real lyric: What becomes of the broooooken-hearted...
My lyric: Can you smell that your daaaaaaddy farted...

And sometimes I'm so dedicated to preserving the rhyme, I will la la la the bulk of the lyrics until I can get back to a good place (good being a relative term).

Real lyric: Cheer up sleepy Jean oh what can it mean...to a daydream believer and a homecoming queeeeeeen.
My lyric: Please please go to sleeeep oh please go to sleep...I am tired la la la la la la la la la la sheeeeeep.

Oh forgive me, Davey Jones.

I wonder at what age to I need to start worrying about this melodic misinformation I'm imparting to my daughter. Will she acquire my disease, and will it adversely affect her? Will there be a day that she come home crying from preschool, having been called out by the lyric gestapo on her rendition of the Hokey Pokey? Will a pedantic teacher dampen her fun by admonishing, "it's not the itsy bitsy spider ate his alfalfa sprouts"?

Or maybe, if there is a God, she will be rewarded for her innovation. I can only hope that one day, some caring young music teacher will sit down next to her on the floor after class, put his arm around her and say, "Let me tell you about a guy called Weird Al...."

Going Dental

"WHAT?" I bounded from the couch. "A tooth?"

"Oh yeah," Nate said. "I totally forgot to tell you. I noticed it yesterday,"

"You forgot to tell me that her first tooth was coming in? How could you forget that?"

He shrugged. "Just forgot."

I grabbed the baby from his lap and slid my finger between her lips. There it was, a single unmistakable shard erupting from her lower gums.

"I heard it clank against the glass of water yesterday," he said.

"I just can't believe you didn't say something."

"I'm telling you now. She has a tooth. There you go."

It blows me away how offhanded Nate can be sometimes. When Thalia has a first of any kind, I'm on the phone yapping about it in an obscene amount of detail: First time eating solids, first time surviving a fall off the bed, first time wearing her President Poopyhead t-shirt. No matter how insignificant, every milestone is conveyed to my speed dial list with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for accomplishments like first Super Bowl ring. Or first walk on Mars without a helmet.

Between calls, my time is spent shaking my head in the baby's direction, tears pooling in my eyes as I repeatedly whisper, "I can't believe it. Your whole fist in your mouth. I just can't believe it."

Rest assured I'm not one of those mothers. You know, the ones who think their child is the first in the world to grow hair. And wouldn't you know it, she just went and grew that hair better than any other child ever could have given the chance.

I also assure you I'm not bragging.

I'm not.

Shut up.

Okay, a little. Sometimes. But mainly what I am is awestruck.

When I relate one of Thalia's firsts, I feel more like an amazed observer than a parent with some sort of stake in the matter. So if I say, "Oh my God, Thalia said ga!" what I'm really saying is, "Oh my God, a four month-old child is capable of saying ga. Who knew?" The fact that it is my four month-old child is almost beside the point.

I've tried to step back and assess what accounts for my disproportionate excitement for the whole child development process, especially since Nate teases me about it to no end. I'm certain it stems from a long-held tenet that I might never have children.

For a good long time, procreation was a distant second to career accomplishments and friendships and passionate one-night stands with cinematographers and handwritten thank you notes from the gay shoe salesmen at Jeffrey (if not the cinematographers). Even into my thirties, that life was satisfying enough. Then I met Nate. Sweet, soulful, amazing Nate, the first boyfriend ever to perceive in me what no other had:

He told me that I would make a good mother.

It's amazing how sometimes we cannot see all of our potential until someone else--someone who hardly even knows us at all--turns our heads and forces us to confront it.

Even now, eight months after I waddled out of my hospital bed for a diaper-changing lesson from Nate, I continue to be dumbstruck at my capacity to mother. I am still processing the fact that I grew a human being in my body for nearly forty-two weeks, then ejected her into the world where she continues to grow, right in front of my eyes. Thalia's firsts are my firsts too.

So if you ever find yourself on the receiving end of a call from me and I'm squealing, "Thalia clapped!" or "Thalia fed herself!" or "Thalia figured out how to rewire the cable box so we get Showtime for free!"--just know I'm not looking for praise. I'm not expecting you to suggest that she is gifted and destined to complete her dual masters before she is old enough to drink.

I'm simply asking for you to pinch me and tell me that this is all real.

Did I mention that Thalia has her first tooth coming in?

I'm not cool but my baby is

'Scuse me, while I kiss this baby
(da na-nah...da na-nah...da nah-nah)

Oh, those wacky life partners.

Me: Say something nice.

Him: What?

Me: Say something nice to me.

Him: Why?

Me: You're in a crappy mood and you're being a real shit. So say something nice to me.

(beat)

Him: Nice Boobs.

Me: Thank you.

Mama's first meme (Or: the most convoluted analogy yet)

Oh, the poor, poor maligned little meme. We're all too good for you, aren't we. Too busy being creative and original to give you a fair shot. Like an ill-conceived wave up in the top tier of a baseball stadium, you start forcefully (oh! here it comes, here it comes!) but then, thanks to a few I'm too sexy for the wave types around the third base line, you lose momentum, fizzle and die. The rest of us sigh, mourning our lost opportunity to stand up in front of thousands and cheer, maybe catch the eye of the camera operator by the dugout, see ourselves on the Jumbotron. Lost in our own remorse, we've already forgotten those few well-meaning folks who started that wave; those once happy people who are now staring at their feet and the congealed condiments nearby, feeling just a little sorry for themselves.

I will not be that wet blanket, Izzy. I will not stop your fun, Mrs. Fortune. I gladly accept your meme and pass it on.

Also, I have to do my taxes today.

1) What is your favorite word?
Lugubrious. I don't get to use it often enough but my life's goal is to work it into an advertising tagline one day. I can't imagine exactly what kind of marketer would need to incorporate a word meaning ridiculously sad, but when moroseness is in vogue, I'm jumping on that trend and riding it bareback all the way to the bank.

2)What irks you every time you hear someone say it?
President Bush

3) What was the first concert you ever went to?
Siouxie and the Banshees, the Orpheum, 1983. It was a make-good for a cancelled Laurie Anderson show. Oh don't worry, I wasn't that cool. My second concert was Howard Jones.

4) Name a song you'll never get sick of hearing.
Burning Down the House by the Talking Heads. And I still sing the lyrics wrong.

5) What song, album or band influenced you most as a teenager OR what song/album is the soundtrack of your youth?
It's a tossup: Violent Femmes for demonstrating that there could be humor in rebellion. And Journey's Escape for providing me with the realization that under all that black hair dye, I had a very cheesy side yearning to...well, escape.

Aren't doctors supposed to make you feel better?

I had always envisioned the perfect pediatrician as a cross between Mary Poppins and Maria Von Trapp. Unfortunately, Aetna had no doctor fitting such a description in their narrow list of approved providers in my neighborhood. As such my daughter's doctor is more like a combination of Dr. Evil and Mel Brooks doing a Yoda impression.

(Pause...get that picture in your head...)

Dr. F is the type who slept through the bedside manner lecture in med school but aced Advanced Condescension. While an excellent diagnostician and the doctor you want in your corner if something bad goes down, he seems to have little patience for new moms (read: new moms and their silly questions). When his kinder, gentler partner isn't available for an appointment, I reluctantly schedule with Dr. F instead. Each time I do, I find I'm talking myself into it, psyching myself up as if it weren't a routine pediatric visit at all, but a debut appearance singing the Star Spangled Banner at Yankee Stadium. A cappella. Naked.

This will be the time he realizes I'm smart! This will be the time I become his number one faaaaavorite patient.

"So what are you feeding her?” Dr. F asked as he typed in Thalia's stats, never turning away from the computer screen. This wasn't unusual. He rarely looked me in the eyes.

“Um.”

I squirmed in the folding chair where I sat holding the baby. What is this power that doctors have over us? Few other people have the ability to make me so nervous. John Cusack springs to mind, but only because he smelled that good in person. And was that tall. And because the mutual friend introducing us had threatened to present me as Liz who really wants to sleep with you. I challenge any of you to not be tongue-tied in a situation like that.

“Feeding her,” Dr. F repeated. “What are you feeding the baby?”

“Baby food?”

He turned towards me, eyebrows raised. I froze. Wrong answer? He flipped one hand over, palm up and gestured for me to continue.

I was drew a complete blank. What did I feed her? A series of quick MTV-like cuts flashed through my mind: The baby food aisle of the supermarket. CUT TO: Rows of identical baby food jars on the shelves. CUT TO: Our kitchen counter littered with baby food jars because we haven't yet made a place in the pantry for them. CUT TO: Blurry close-up of the baby food label from this morning's breakfast.

I could almost visualize it...it's coming into focus...a label...with an illustration...a picture of...

“Fruits!” I shouted like a retarded contestant on Family Feud. "I feed her fruits!" Toning it down a little, "and vegetables. Also cereal. A little. I mean, she's been constipated so um...”

“No meats?”

Was I supposed to be feeding her meats, I wondered? She has no teeth. Should she be eating pork chops? Oh my God, I can't even cook. What meat have I ever cooked? Fajitas. Helloooo, she's eight months old and I'm considering making her fajitas. Hey, here's a good idea--maybe if I wish for it very very hard, I will turn invisible right now.

"Pureed meat," he clarified, reading my expression perfectly. "Baby foods with meat. Like chicken. You can buy them at the store."

"Okay, meat. I understand. And for the constipation..."

"You're not feeding her bran? You should be feeding her bran."

"Just oatmeal and rice cereal. But like I said we stopped because..."

"Bran."

"Okay it's just that..."

"Bran."

"I know I just..."

"Bran."

"Well then!" I said brightly. "Meats and Bran it is!"

Dr. F said nothing further; he just turned and walked out of the office giving me a half-hearted little wave over his right shoulder.

"I guess that means the appointment is over Monkey," I told Thalia.

And then she leaned forward and put my entire nose in her mouth. I think it was her way of saying, don't worry mommy. I still think you're great. And she couldn't have picked a better time.

Mom-101 Yields the Floor

If you have time to read the longwinded, rambling blahbedeblah that would normally appear in this spot, I'd like to redirect you to Cool Mom Picks, a site I often write for while my baby's cries go unheeded.

Check out our featured article, The Mod Hatter: Contest for a Cause. It's worth your while, I promise.

I will return at a later point with something interesting to say. Or not.

I'm official! Hooray!

Just when I thought this Mercury retrograde thing was going to kick my butt all month, something wonderful has happened. I mean, really wonderful.

I got my first pornographic google hits.

Oh halleluja! Oh frabjous day!

I have regarded those older, wiser bloggers from afar, enviously devouring their pee-your-pants-funny posts about the wayward souls who found themselves at a mommyblog through a google search gone awry. I had always hoped that one day, I too would be worthy enough to entrap some unsuspecting letch here on his way to a barely legal web cam site. And now, that day has come. My sweet little baby blog has become a woman.

What was the term, you ask? What did some horny young lad type into that little google or msn or yahoo search box that accidentally brought him stumbling into Mom-101?

free porn step dad and mom

Like a lonely old lady with a pie on the windowsill and no one to share it with but my cats, I am delighted that this gentleman was able to pop over for a visit, however accidental. Had I been awake and online at 4:42 AM when he was here, I would have offered him some chamomile tea, asked him how things were in his part of New Jersey. Maybe even ask him what would have compelled him to click on a parenting blog in the first place. Reverse the situation: If I'm doing a search for wordy but occasionally amusing mom blog, do I stop on the way at steamycoedfantasy.com? Okay, maybe I do. But you get my point.

Apparently I attract quite a few of the Oedipally oriented. Because unbeknownst to me, I have also welcomed visitors looking for:

mature mom porn
do my mom porn
naked mom
i love my mom biggest boob

And my favorite:

porn big milk feeding mom

This last gentleman evidently hung around for multiple page views. He must have stumbled onto the nursing bra photos.

I must admit I did have a bit of a giggle with:

fudgie the whale how to make

until I realized it was not some gay bestiality query, but an honest search for a Carvel ice cream cake that I had indeed written about here.

So if you are one of my surprise guests today, if you have found your way here circuitously via a search for adult diaper fetish or sexy postpartum cellulite, welcome one and all. We do not discriminate here at Mom-1o1.

Just don't touch anything.

Skip this post if you don't like whining.

I'm sick. Sick sick sick. My throat feels like coarse-grit sandpaper, my lips are cracked in a dozen places, and the crumpled balls of Kleenex around all the bedroom wastepaper basket contain fluid of a striking shade that I call Michelle Williams' Oscar Gown.

I've avoided writing about this for three days because, let's face, it, there is nothing more tedious than a blogger writing about her cold. Especially when there are emaciated celebrities to skewer. But you know what? I'm sick which means I'm the princess and I get to do whatever I want. So poop on you.

Our medicine cabinet is a fun place to explore since we will try anything once and never throw it away. Why we have two unopened tins of Tiger Balm I will never know. My only recollection of how you use that stuff is that in tenth grade, my best friend Rachel and I would get stoned, apply the Tiger Balm to our temples, and go, Coooool...it feels like there's a bullet going through my head! Or something like that.

I won't go through our entire pharmaceutical inventory, but let's just say if you're ever at my place after a run-in with some bad sushi, we've got you covered nine different ways.

Admittedly Nate and I are CVS junkies. I can't send him to the store for Advil without him toting home four other pain relievers, our sixth toenail clipper, two different kinds of cotton balls, and some Cool Ranch Doritos. He's especially assured of bringing home any product with a box that proclaims NEW! Especially if it's got some fancy proprietary technology with a catchy name like time-release or liquigel or flavor crystals. So when I sent him to the store for more Dayquil, I shouldn't have been surprised that he also came home with Zicam Cold and Flu Daytime with NEW! SPOON DOSING! written on the box in bright red letters, so the rubes like us can't miss it.

I love Zicam. It's a zinc spray you shove up your nose and it really does work, but this stuff is different. It's essentially this goopy liquid in prepackaged little spoons, which I can only imagine is for those people too sick to get up and actually pour medicine into the spoon by themselves. Then again, you do have to be well enough to make some tea or soup to stir the stuff into, and then go ahead and drink the whole thing without getting distracted by Bob Barker explaining the next item up for bid. I was not this well. Nor this motivated. So I licked the medicine right off the spoon.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

I have never in fact licked a dog's ass but if I did, I could pretty much assure you that it would taste better than this stuff.

What's worse, it did not, as promised, provide powerful relief of my sore throat or nasal congestion or runny nose. What it did do is knock me on my ass for two hours when I had work to do. Which begs the question, what is it about this medicine that makes it "daytime" instead of "nighttime?" Less profanity on the packaging?

(Okay, here I think to myself, I have just insured that I will never be approached to pitch the Zicam account. But wait! I could do great ads for it! Zicam Cold and Flu Daytime Formula: Tastes worse than a dog's ass so you know it's working. Or Zicam Cold and Flu Daytime Formula: If you're really that sick you wouldn't be able to taste it anyway, Miss Smartypants.)

But hey, I'm a silver lining kind of gal. I will say there has been one upside to feeling like one of those cartoon pianos fell on my head--it kept me home with my baby, allowing me the great pleasure of witnessing the following:



Not the Gene Simmons impression, the fact that she's standing. My little girl is standing! Maybe it is time to go ahead and lock up that medicine chest after all.

Morning-After Oscar Recap #689,771

Best sound editing? Feh. I can think of plenty of other awards people will happily stay up all night for:

Best use of dead animal as accessory: Charlize Theron's left shoulder.

Biggest bicep that could have been mistaken for a goiter: The producer accepting the best picture award.

Biggest upset: Jamie Foxx sticking with the script instead of doing the "heyyyy...hoooo" thing.

First ever interpretive dance to give interpretive dance a bad name: Crash. It was the most horrifying spectacle I've witnessed since being dragged to Titanic: The Musical which in my opinion, is just a baby step away from PanAm Flight 103: The Musical. And it didn't help the segment much that Rousseau from Lost was singing.

Best line of the night: Dame Judi Dench took my eye out in a bar fight. This is why Jon Stewart and his writing staff should do the Oscars every year. All of it, too. Not just Bruce Villanch's cast-offs.

Best example of life imitating art if you call Something's Gotta Give, art: Jack Nicholson bringing his teenage daughter - whom I actually believed could have been his date.

The Duh, Why Didn't I Think of That Award: To the creator of the All Cowboy Films are Gay segment.

The winner most likely to make Louis B. Mayer roll over in his grave, roll back again, roll over one more time, then stand up and do the running man: Best song, It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp.

Best audition for a spot at Madame Tussaud's: Dolly Parton.

Best evidence that if you have a good plastic surgeon, you don't need to know math: The twinkie on the E! preshow saying, "you know Ryan, the top publicists make as much as THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS A MONTH working for these celebrities!"

Most likely to inspire thousands of teenage girls to stick their fingers down their throats after fourth-period lunch today: Jessica Alba wearing a size negative 42.

Best inside joke that went over the heads of the 41 million non-industry people watching the show: Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep's Altman-esque introduction to the Altman tribute. I liked it. But I'm pretentious that way.

Best post on an online message board last night that made me feel old: What has Meryl Streep been in, anyway?

Best post on an online message board last night that made me feel young: I like that Ludacris. He seems like such a nice rapper.

Best reason for me to burn all of my pregnancy photos: Rachel Weisz, that bitch.

Biggest oversight in the RIP montage: John Spencer. Forgive us, Leo McGarry.

Best celebrity contender for political office: George Clooney. I say, more womanizers in the White House! They always make the best Presidents.

Best candidates to host the Oscars next year: Will Ferrell and Steve Carrell. Oh please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let it be them.

Mama got a face lift

Just a little squirt of html botox, nothing major. It is Oscar night after all.

Midnight Brain

When you wake up at 2 AM with an idea, it becomes somehow magnified and distorted like a face reflected in a funhouse mirror.

If are roused from sleep anxious about a business meeting, it's as if that meeting alone will make or break your entire career. If you are thinking about SIDS, you're all but convinced that your baby is turning blue while you lie there and talk yourself out of checking on him. And if your eyes fly open with an idea for blog post? You will determine that it's so brilliant, the Nobel Prize committee will convene for a special session in Stockholm just to create a new category in your honor.

It also goes without saying that any minor medical complaint you may have in the wee hours of the night takes on a life of its own. Thus, I forgive Nate for springing awake at 12:45 with a rash and shouting, “We have bedbugs!”

I forgive you for jumping to this conclusion even after I assured you that it was an allergic reaction of some sort and you should just take a Benadryl and get back to bed.

I forgive you for racing to the computer anyway to look up bedbugs on the internet, being that I have the same unhealthy relationship with WebMD.

I forgive you for searching out whatever information would confirm your bedbug theory despite all evidence to the contrary. (This, to me, is one of the most fascinating aspects of the internet: whatever you think is true, be it bedbugs or Roswell or the notion that Kurt Kobain is alive and well and living as Elvis Presley's houseboy, you can always find a source to back it up.)

I forgive you for insisting that it was definitely bedbugs (or maybe fleas), never mind that your rash looked nothing like bedbug (or maybe flea) bites, never mind that it all started around noon when you were nowhere near a mattress (or a dog with fleas).

I forgive you for somehow believing that bedbugs could live only on your side of the bed, bound by some sort of bedbug code of honor that prohibits them from sucking the blood of new moms and their progeny.

I forgive you for snatching the baby from the bed, depositing her on the changing table, and unsnapping her pajamas, determined to prove that it was indeed bedbug (or maybe flea) bites making her cry and not the fact that she has a cold. Or that she's teething. Or that it was two in the freaking morning.

I forgive you for muttering obscenities under your breath about me and bedbugs and fleas and me while you headed back to bed.

I forgive you.

Because I know that this is what Midnight Brain does to you. And because frankly, I'm just too tired to fight about it today.

What it means to be a crazy hip blog mama

Per this month's writing prompt from the CHBM, here's my 1,004 words on the subject:

This, plus a blog

Creative skeletons in my closet

Could someone please explain Wildboyz on MTV2? It's Jackass with the B-team. I don't understand Nate's compulsion to watch it every night because it's essentially the same show over and over: A half-naked guy lets a snake bite his ass. Or sometimes it's a crab. Or sometimes it's a toucan. Or sometimes it's another guy. They should just call it Who Will Bite My Ass Today?

I left Nate to his show and found a far more interesting activity--reorganizing the front hall closet.

Amidst the the piles of clothes for Goodwill, the Christmas regift box, hardware of dubious usefulness, and duffel bags which only seem to exist to hold other duffel bags, I came across my old copywriting portfolio. (If you've ever poked around my blog, you will know that this is how I pay the bills.)

We're talking old. Like, really old. Like, I was living in my swinging NYC bachelorette pad, the first bad Bush was in office, O.P.P. was on the radio, and we all thought eating Snackwells was the key to weight loss. Also, back in (cough, cough) '91 a portfolio was a big leather thing that you schlepped up and down the broken subway station escalators until you were good and sweaty for your job interview. Not these newfangled shiny disc-things that the kids carry around nowadays.

So I wrestled it out from under the duffel bag of duffel bags, dusted it off, and flipped through the laminated pages.

And I laughed.

I'll spare you the student ads for the New England Bartending School (Orgasm jokes! Clever!) and skip right to the highlight: a brilliant little commercial script I had forgotten about entirely.

If memory serves me, I had no doubt whatsoever that my fine clients in Chicago would buy said brilliant spot, shell out a million or so for the talent, splash it across primetime network television, and make me famous beyond my wildest dreams. My Clio Awards Best of Show acceptance speech was going to strike the appropriate balance of humility and humor; I even had the perfect Betsey Johnson dress picked out.

Allow me to share the script:

Client: The Quaker Oats Co.
Product: Quaker Toasted Oatmeal Ready-to-Eat Cereal
:30 TV

TITLE UP: AMERICA'S GREATEST FLAKES

Open on Shirley MacLaine in her dressing room, eating a bowl of cereal.

SHIRLEY: I know I've never had this cereal before. It's brand new. But something about it tastes...so familiar.

ANNOUNCER: Introducing Quaker Toasted Oatmeal.

SHIRLEY: It's as if hot Quaker Oatmeal came back as a cold ceral.

ANNOUNCER: Covered with crunchy wholegrain oats, it's the only cold cereal with the goodness of hot Quaker Oatmeal.

SHIRLEY: I've been eating Quaker Oatmeal my whole life. Maybe longer. But this is the first time I've had it crunchy.

Cut to product shot. Tagline up.

ANNOUNCER: New Quaker Toated Oatmeal in Original or Honey Nut. America's greatest flakes.

----------------

I will completely understand if you never come back here again.

While I was combing the web for nursing bra photos yesterday...

Wanna see the new hairs I have around my nipples? They're HUGE!

Um, I think my silicone is leaking.

You'll never guess what I'm doing right now, Bob!
No, seriously, guess...nope...uh-uh....guess again...

Why in the world would nurses need special bras?
I'm, like, so confused.

You promise this won't end up on the internet, right?

A Mighty Wean

(Advance apologies to those of you who are still lactating, who have yet to lactate, or who will never lactate thanks to that pesky Y chromosome. Unless you're into this. Ew.)

We sat in a circle under the fluorescent lights of the windowless classroom, twenty-six strangers. Each face revealed the same emotions—apprehension, nervous anticipation, panic—only in different proportions. The matronly instructor looked up from her notes.

“Let’s go around the circle and you’ll each tell us your name, a little about yourself, and what your biggest worry is regarding childbirth.” The answers were predictable.

“Labor”

“Tearing”

“Needing forceps”

“Needing a c-section”

“Labor and tearing”

“Labor and tearing and needing a c-section and the epidural needle and pitocin and taking care of the baby OH MY GOD HOW AM I GOING TO TAKE CARE OF THE BABY!”

I know what you’re thinking but that last answer, that wasn’t me.

My only concern was breastfeeding.

Unlike many women, I never romanticized breastfeeding. I hadn't thought about it much at all. But when I did, it seemed less of a beautiful moment between mother and child, and more like playing host to a parasitic Mini-Me. I spent many sleepless pregnant nights readjusting the five pillows between my knees and pondering the awesome responsibility of sustaining another being solely with my body. I knew it was the right thing to do but it just seemed so complicated. Reading Dr. Sears (bad idea; very bad idea) would lead you to believe that breastfeeding requires a two-month emotional preparation period, a La Leche League membership, several pre- and post-partum classes, a certified lactation consultant booked six weeks in advance, and mastery of his patented 47-point easy latch-on technique.

Could I do this?

But then Thalia was born and the milk came in and by God, there I was with my amorphous hospital-issue nightgown pulled to one side and a 6 pound, 15 ounce baby at the proverbial teat.

(6 pound, 12 ounces.)

(6 pound, 10 ounces.)

(6 pound, 7 ounces.)

(Okay, she’s got it down now. Nothing to see here. Move along.)

As it turns out, the female body was made for breastfeeding. Who knew? Of course I had a bumpy start requiring nipple shields like something out of a deleted strip club scene from Logan’s Run. Also, there was a brief but unpleasant episode of engorgement involving some triple-D sized cabbage leaves. In retrospect, the cabbage leaves were sexy in a weird, green leafy vegetable-fetish kind of way. Thank you, thank you readers of Big Vegan Jugs for voting me 2005 centerfold of the year. I’d like to thank my mom. And tofu.

Two weeks into it, we were in the groove. My body was mixing up a bottomless lacto-cocktail and Thalia was imbibing with gusto. To my surprise it wasn't bad at all. The convenience! The bonding! The convenience! I breastfed where and when it was called for--in Barnes & Noble, on the benches of the Brooklyn promenade overlooking the East River, in my sister-in-law’s living room in front of her lovely but conservative Southern father. The poor man hasn’t been the same since. I should really send a fruit basket.

My pièce de resistance was a cluster-feeding spectacular amongst the hallowed burgundy booths of Balthazar, where the celebrities deign to consume towering raw bar platters and steak frites alongside mere mortals. Oh it was a beautiful sight. I wore white. Thalia wore pink. The open-mouthed Eurotransplant couple facing us wore black. A little milk with those Bluepoints, chère?

We were having a grand old time that summer, Thalia and me and my enormous boobs. We all got together ten, twelve times a day and it was as though nothing could break up our happy little foursome.

Then I went back to work.

Work means travel. Travel means pumping.

Hauling that mad scientist Medela contraption around was the least of my concerns. (Although every time I attached the cups and cranked up the juice I felt like screaming “On my count! One, two, three…CHARGE.” ) What I could not handle was squatting in a cramped bathroom stall in the Orlando airport for forty minutes with a manual pump sadistically tweaking my nipples raw, while the most horrific sounds and smells drifted my way from the adjacent commodes.

On the second business trip I pumped in the same airport bathroom only for half the time. On the third trip I only pumped at night in my hotel room. On the fourth trip I brought my pump but never took it out of my bag. On the fifth trip I left it at home altogether.

I had been surprised at how much I liked breastfeeding. Six months later, I was surprised at how much I liked not breastfeeding.

I'm happy I weaned. Is it okay to say that? I'm saying it.

To all those well-intentioned people who assured me that breastfeeding would make those 45 pounds slide right off like butter on a hot biscuit--pffffft. I experienced no such thing. But now having ceased nursing, I'm finally back on track to stuffing my hips into my neglected prepregnancy clothes. I'm walking a little taller these days, holding my head a little higher. It's amazing how much self-confidence is gained from the realization that I am no longer in danger of knocking small children to the ground with my ass as I pass them on the sidewalk.

I forgot how wonderful it is to eat Pop Tarts for dinner without worrying that I'm depriving my child of some essential nutrients. I forgot how liberating it is to pop an Advil or an Allegra without first consulting kellymom. And boy do I love that I can have a glass of wine (or two or six) and it doesn't have to be timed around anything beside my own desire for a glass of wine (or two or six).

And above all, I am so very happy that the stained, elephantine bras I sported for too many months are crumpled up beneath the rest of the maternity clothes in a plastic Duane Reade bag in the back of the closet.

The 36DDDs are dead, long live the 36DDDs.

Of course I miss the sweet, still moments alone with Thalia. I am grateful to have been bequeathed so much uninterrupted time where I could just smell the top of her head or study the curve of her shoulders or hear her make her little newborn squeaky-toy sounds as she ate. But in its place, I know there will be other moments. There always are.

As for you Dr. Sears, we need to have a little sitdown, just you and me. No weapons. This time.