The Salvador Dali Power Nap

I'm not sure if I dreamed this or read it a long time ago, that Salvador Dali would nap with a bunch of keys in his hand. And when the keys fell to the floor and made a noise, he would wake up and that was his power nap. I don't know why I always think of that whenever I feel like taking a nap in the afternoon. Maybe because I feel guilty for taking such long naps that leave my cotton mouthed and catatonic. I can’t just “nap.” I fall unconscious. And dream that I'm a car thief. But I only steal very small cars, Fiat Unos, Smart Cars and Austin Minis.

Note from the editor: Dali napped in his armchair, holding not keys but a spoon over a metal pan on the floor below. When he hit REM and lost muscle tonus, the spoon would fall from his grip, bang the metal pan and awaken him.

In / Out

Lugging around a Klean Kanteen / Fiji Water et al

Sausages / Sashimi

Optimism / Common Sense

Dropping the F Bomb / Dropping Bon Mots

Conformity / Idiosyncrasy

Passive Aggressiveness / Sarcasm

How Much Do I Tip for a Pap Smear?

First off, for full disclosure, I should say that I hate tipping. I hate that people in his country don't make a living wage and have to rely on tips. It's just fucked up. I do tip at restaurants, the valet, the poor guy at the car wash, the hair stylist. Whatever. But after reading the post of a mom who was wondering how much she should tip her babysitter and then reading the respones (of course you tip. we always tip, we always round up blahblah. aren't we generous fuckwits...) I have to say, I've had it. Next we'll start tipping our dentists. And our OB-GYNs. How much do I tip for a pap smear? 25 percent I assume.

The Yield of Magical Thinking

I think I've been indulging in magical thinking as a coping mechanism. Not the Didion kind of magical thinking but the other kind, where you think angels or fairies are coming to your aid and just by thinking something you can make things happen, like bringing down a Boeing 747. When Milan and I were both very sick last week and I couldn't survive without a steady influx of Xanax, S. was saying that I was "being cleared" for something better. Now that is Abraham Hicks speak and I didn't really buy it. But, in retrospect, I feel lighter somehow (maybe it's the seven pounds lost due to heavy-duty vomiting) in my body, the way I felt after Obama won, like not just me but everyone had a spring in their step. I feel lighter still and I feel also like there's been a major shift of consciousness, like now there's actually the possibility of ever being skinny again. And yes, the spirit guides have been helping. They come in my dreams and they open doors in my heart and sweep them out, and I cry when I hear music, and not just Beethoven's Ninth, but almost any music, like Where is Thumbkin. And now that Milan has a fever of 104.3 and there’s the possibility of pneumonia, I feel, no I trust, that spirit will make it all OK somehow.

Note: magical thinking is nonscientific causal reasoning that often includes such ideas as the ability of the mind to affect the physical world, correlation equaling causation, the law of contagion, the power of symbols, and the meaningfulness of synchronicity.

Can You Spare Some Change?

I have just one word. HOPE. That, and my German family driving me crazy by constantly saying that Barack is going to be assassinated. It's the parlay du jour if you want to sound tuned in. What if it's true, though? More likely, the Mac will suffer a fatal heart attack when he loses.

Fucking MDs (not as in "they are fucking" but "they suck ass")

I'm pretty sure it was bile, I say to the nice youngish female doctor at Urgent Care. It probably wasn't, she says. It was bright green, I say. It probably was something else. Something he's eaten. But he hasn't eaten for three days and the last thing was spaghetti! And then I ask her about homeopathy, because I have these pellets called Nux Vomica, and she says: I know in Europe they work a lot with probiotics, but here they just aren't standardized. (note from the editor: Nux Vomica is Strychnine, as related to probiotics as arsenic and butter). And finally I say, so there's nothing you can prescribe for him? And she says, no, just try to get him to drink an ounce of pedialyte every 15 minutes. And just wondering, why did you refuse the Hep B vaccination? Because he isn't going to have sex anytime soon? I offer. Fuck the American medical system. Fuck Fuck Fuck.

Conventional Old Me

Why is it that epiphanies are always about something really profane? It would have taken Sherlock Holmes mere seconds (Dr. S. and I took our time, 12 months or so) to deduce that my real self is very unconventional whereas my ego is buried under heavily embedded Conventions (capital C). That other miserable me has very suburban notions of what connotes a good person, a good enough mother, a reasonable person, a sane person, a NORMAL person. I'm an unconventional self taken hostage by a daytime soap-watching, J.C. Penney-shopping (IWallmart? Food 4 Less? Fred Segal’s?), mousy hair colored (no highlights in 8 months) conventional schlock. And it's keeping a sistah down, man!

"Splendid"

I will read a little "dazzling" "hilarious" "post Prozac/Prada" "rollercoaster fun ride" that's "deftly told" and "laugh out loud funny" in order to get my mind off of... serious stuff.

Dreaming of the Congo

When my anxiety becomes very acute, like a sharp and pointy object (even though I am not a cutter per se), phrases get stuck in my head. "Matata am Kongo" is a novel that used to sit on my parents' shelf when I was little. And even though I devoured everything else related to the fabled Dark Continent, I never read it. In my feverish, stomach virus-induced delirium, Matata has become a mantra. It serves as an anchor to keep my mind from spinning. I googled it and it's available on amazon.com for 200 plus euros. That's $400! In the meantime, it will keep its dark allure and as long as I keep saying it, Milan will not have to go to the hospital for dehydration. It's got magic voodoo powers.

Nausea

Nausea. I'm not talking of your garden variety French existential ennui but real physical vomiting sickness. For some reason it is heartbreaking to watch a baby puke. The convulsions, the heaving, the scared crying. Because the baby has no idea what is happening to him. I feel like I myself cannot get better because the worry over Milan not keeping fluids down is depressing my immune system. It's dry and hot and I'm getting eczema, an angry outbreak on my hands. I feel scared somehow and I've already taken several xanaxes. I can't eat. This almost feels worse than garden variety French existential ennui.

Stories

Can we really trust the stories we make up about ourselves and others? Like thinking that C., who is back in town and driving me crazy by saying such things as I wanna go to Germany with you, is really empty inside, that having sex with 100 hot Ukranian girls leaves him lost and lonely somehow and that is why he wants to install me in one of his homes as a quasi mami-wife, so in the wee hours he'll have someone to hold him tight. And that thing about his mother looking like Brigitte Bardot, and me looking a little like his mother, it's an archetype and there is something sick about it. But how well do I really know him and myself for that matter? He reads my mind only because in my pain I become so transparent. And that part of me that wants to say fuck it and go on a wild adventure. That reckless shadow self. I thought I long left that behind and replaced it by someone who enjoys doing the dishes, and drying them, and putting them away. Can I just accept that self without acting on it?

BFF Redux

Says "friend" (this term can be used loosely, apparently) upon reading blog entry while bored at work for five minutes, You know there are a number of reasons why WE haven't been into EACH OTHER lately. And yeah, we had some fun in the past but it's better just to let it at that... as though she were breaking up with a pesky boyfriend. Just like that. And phew, I feel better, like she just had a good burp or something. Maybe she did, maybe I was clogging her windpipe. Still, I'm dying of curiosity over here, wondering what the myriad ways are in which she just isn't INTO me. I really wonder. I wanna say, bring it on, but to what avail? Salt in my wounds, that avail.

Thoughts

We are what our thoughts have made us; so take care about what you think. Words are secondary. Thoughts live; they travel far.

Noblesse Oblige

I understand buying vintage baby T's for $68. But Baby Wellingtons (seen at Crew Cuts)? It NEVER rains in SoCal. Chances are also slim that your baby will any time soon stomp the wet and muddy North York Moors. Nor will the baby need Hunter Wellingtons for Field Sports, like shooting clay pigeons in Wales. So why? Just because people are stupid and think that Wellies (basically glorified rubber boots) will lend them an air of moneyed aristocracy. The sweet perfume of nobility.

Barney's and the Self

The mind is an unreliable friend. Yesterday my fickle ego was overcome with sadness for the sudden and horrible death of M.'s father, a witty and kind man who was erased, just like that, by a heart attack. I was thinking how lucky I was having both my parents, my adorable baby, my health. I sat in Dr. S.'s office with the promise to "face the brood" head on, to travel down that path of darkness while he lends a helping hand, a psychiatric torch, to illuminate shadow aspects and buried fears. With one visit to the Americana at Brand today, my fragile self crumbled under size small dresses at Barney's and the assholes at J.Crew not even saying hello to this frumpy mother. Everything looked so inaccessable, so dependent on wealth, on wearing expensive watches and $300 highlights. I felt small, inaccessible and ugly.

BFFs

Say you have a friend whom you like OK but who's not really a top priority friend, say because they aren't that glamorous or pretty or thin or they had a baby or whatever, and say that friend wants to hang out, you say: This week isn't looking really good, but next week or the following week on Tuesday would be good (because you're going to Palm Springs or have ---better---friends in town or your house burned down or whatever)---and then that Tuesday arrives you can always send a quick email saying: you know, I’m so sorry, but tonight isn't so good and neither is tomorrow, but how about next week on Thursday. And the next thing you know, after doing this a couple of times, you have successfully put that friend off for six whole months! Because, really, seeing that third-tier friend is like such a chore!

Amy Winehouse is Too Fat

Maybe I'll have another slice of cheese.

Chat 'n' Drab

Against better judgment I went to another snack 'n' chat this morning. I had to. I was the featured speaker and I was actually excited to explore some mom friendly poses and stuff, but man oh man, it went on and on, voting on the budget and discussing I-don't-even-know-what and I kept wondering if I'm the only one who is tortured this utter dullesville. It's an aspect of mommyhood that totally doesn't agree with me. Yawn. I'd rather contemplate ant farms.

Über Alles

If you must resort to hyperbole and decide to use the tired old Über (Nietzsche coined it in 1883, man), please please please make sure it has the umlaut. Uber, as well as ueber, just looks überüberüber lame.

Have you taken your pills?

About six weeks, ago Dr. S. promised that in another month or so we could talk about a little magic pill. The time came and left and instead of a new prescription I got another book on how to achieve enlightenment. It goes like this: A young monk asks his master, Master, what can you tell me about enlightenment? Master says, Have you eaten? Yes, master, says the young monk. Then wash your bowl!

I have tons of dishes to wash and sheets to put on the bed and dinner to make, but I would rather have a little magic pill. Or my stomach stapled.

Beards

Beards have reached a critical mass. In my little corner of the world, which consists of Echo Park lake and the Hollywood farmers market on Sunday mornings. Serious mountain man beards down to here with cut off 90s era flannels to round out the grunge look. I feel like other people wouldn't even notice this recent fugly development, but I have a special fondness for hipster dudes who are trying real hard to look leftie and clever. Personally, I'm leaning more toward Goyard bags and Tory Burch flats. Just kidding.

But a beard, that would be grounds for divorce. Beards are so 2004!

Old Farts

Thanks to the NY Times, I now know that at the old age of 61 (and over) I can look forward to something with the fascinating name elderspeak. Alas, it is not some inspirational wisdom that the senior citizens develop as they ripen, and which younger folks receive with glee. No, elderspeak is:

Using terms like "honey" or "dear."
Using statements that sound like questions.

Using a singsong voice, changing pitch and tone, exaggerating words.
Simplifying the length and complexity of sentences.
Speaking more slowly.
Using limited vocabulary.

And it seriously fucks old people up, not only eroding older adults' self-esteem but causing them to perform significantly worse on memory and balance tests. In short: it cuts 7.5 years from your life.

I can relate. Every time I'm addressed as "ladies" in a restaurant, a part of me dies a little.

Fast Forwards

People should operate under the premise that it is NOT okay to forward inspirational texts or anything that ends with a warning such as "And if you don't send this to at least 8 people..." or a variation thereof. This also counts for words from George Carlin with the tag "absolutely brilliant." Anything that is "absolutely brilliant" is usually "not absolutely brilliant." It also applies to any email that is written in a font a size 18 and larger, or in alternating colors or weighted down with an overdose of smiley faces or---gasp---angel characters. And lastly, it counts for anything that comes with the disclaimer "I don't usually forward things, but..." Considering forwarding an email with the latter should be a clear warning sign that you best leave the piece to clutter up your own inbox.

R.I.P.

It's a little late but better than never. My thoughts on David Foster Wallace that is. He was the best of our generation and all and terribly brilliant and it's sad he killed himself and all, but I don't think I'm gonna enjoy reading him. Infinite Jest is what, 1,079 pages, which doesn't scare me, but hearing it compared to Moby Dick or Gravity's Rainbow does. Ugh. Painful. Brief Interviews with Hideous Men I might be able to stomach, but why would I? I live too close for comfort to a few of them. And an article on Roger Federer? I was tortured by a family of tennis fanatics for too long in my early life. Where does this leave me? With Twilight I guess, and the sexy school of adjective writing.

Live Through This

Nothing like a vice presidential campaign to ruin your evening. Hockey mom was good, peppering her heartland speech with darns and hecks and doggones and mavericks. To get the bad taste out of my mouth I did some channel surfing and found a Fox 11 show where people run toward a fast-moving wall and try to bend their bodies in such a way as to fit through cutout shapes. I almost fainted. The debate was a hole and hunter mom was trying to put her bouffant through it. And she succeeded with every sound bite for all the suckers out there who get excited about a $5000 tax break so they can buy their own health care and rest in peace that rape victims have to birth their unwanted bastards. She's the girl with the most cake. She fakes it so real, she's beyond fake. And someday, they will ache like I ache.

Om Kvetch Gurudev Kvetch

When I was walking to my car this morning to get my yoga mat so S. could borrow it, I remembered what Tej said in class the other day. She said you don't have to work so hard to get the things you want. Instead you just have to align yourself with your higher self, and things will come to you, as if by magic. What if your higher self is a belligerent, cynical, balding Jewish man with glasses? Must ask Mr. Gurudev.

Socially Conscious Spoons Suck

Just because they sell it at Whole Foods, is expensive and made by a socially conscious company doesn't mean it's any good, as demonstrated by the eco-chic bamboo spoons I got for Milan yesterday. When you scoop up puree, they form a mad drip at the bottom. Feeding was a huge mess. Guess I'm going back to my sociopathic plastic.

Hippopotapuss

On a tragic note, we ran into some acquaintances last night that simply did not recognize me in my fat suit. Carl, of La Cita fame (written up in USA Today yesterday as a Top 10 Dance Destinations for Los Angeles) shook hands with me and talked for 10 minutes until he realized I was the skinny blonde he used to know as A.'s wife (now brunette in a masochistic attempt to match hair and soul). It stung. It still does. No dinner tonight for this hippopotapuss!

The Joy of Loveless

There's a world out there, beyond white bean baby purees and buying sixth different sippy cups (Playtex? Nuby? Born Free? Sigg? Foogoo? Klean Kanteen?)---because he may just learn to drink from one of them---and after spending $85 on a babysitter I entered it, timidly, with trepidation. Of course, I had nothing to wear and my hair was in its usual sloppy ponytail. But I did it. I stood close to a jet engine at the Civic Auditorium last night and received the sonic onslaught that is My Bloody Valentine. It was divine. My ears are still ringing. With pain and with delight.

Ignorance Is a Size 3

There are many things I'm not sure about. Like Grenache. Irony. Neo-Liberalism. Moxie. These are key words to look for when trying to identify someone as an intellectual. He or she is also likely to diss gentrification. And eat Humboldt Fog on a cheese plate. I am no intellectual. I think I used the word chutzpah once in conversation, back when I had a working mind. I cancelled my subscription to the New Yorker. My brain doesn't go there anymore. For me it's just size 3 diapers and butt paste.

This Is Your Brain on Socks

Dr. S. asked today if I ever did lose my mind. I almost confessed to reckless experimentations with hallucinogens in my early 20s, but then I looked at his tan socks, and his clay coffee mug and his print of a Winnecott book cover on the wall (mother and child) and I just couldn't. There was an uncomfortable silence as I prepared my lie. And the moment passed. I can fess up to many things, but not LSD. To my shrink. Oh no. He has such nice comforting socks.

Names and Mt. Washington

What do baby names and Mount Washington have in common? Something, I tell you. The hipper (darn it, I said it again) the boy's name, the bigger the chances that his parents will buy a home in Mt. Washington in the next 4 months.

I'm glad I didn't name Milan Parker. Or Bowie or Finn or Dexter or Joshua or Aidan or Jayden, Ashton, Hunt or Tyler. Or London, Dresden, Boston or Hudson. There are a few others I can't mention here. And no, I did not name Milan after Italy's fashion capital. I do like shopping and he is an international playah, but give me some credit.

I'll tell you what I will do. I will move to Mt. Washington and gentrify it some more. Out with the pupusas. In with the Chariot strollers and $3,000 Tibetan sheep rugs. I will hang an owl just so. And Milan will get a sandbox.

These are the things...

Too fat is when you can no longer wrap a regular size bath towel around your body after showering. Luckily, I still can. But my boobs fail the pencil test. And other parts of my body are strangely different, too. Like C. said, while our babies were crawling in the sandbox on a sunny Friday afternoon, her "yoohoo" looks like an old lady's now. I've never seen an old lady's but I have the power of imagination. I don't know what mine looks like. I've allowed nature to take over. Deforestation has given way to verdant foliage. These are the things we never talk about.

Happy Food

I hardly ever say anything happy and positive and shiny and new, but I'm glad to report that the banana avocado mousse I made for Milan this morning was divine! The recipe came courtesy of the wonderful, inspirational weelicious.com, the best site for homemade babyfood this side of the Mississippi. Thank you, weelicious!

City Sip

The word hip is about as bad and overused as the word postmodern used to be, but I'm going to use it anyway. You see, I went to the (self-described) hip City Sip in Echo Park last night and it was trying so hard to be with it, that it fell completely flat. It was uncomfortably quiet and the whole experience felt stilted. The dudes pouring need to be more animated and please, learn something about the wines you are offering! Don't just read notes from the menu! At times it looked like they were about to say something, er, friendly, but then the cat must have gotten their tongues. They were extras in their own show and they made us feel weird. Not that we aren't weird already, but weirder, as in having a hard time getting into a conversational flow. My frizzante Rose was sugary sweet and when I mentioned it to the guy who gave of owner vibes he said: 'well, it's an acquired taste.' I wanted to say, dude, no one in their right mind will ever acquire a taste for this sparkling syrup, but instead we paid our bill, left, and went to Sgt. Recruiter were we had oodles of fun.

chick lit

The author Curtis Sittenfeld (Prep) claimed on NPR the other day that she didn't know what chick lit was. She's a real published auteur, so she can be magnanimous and say: "Is chick lit any book by or about a young woman? Any book by or about any woman? Any book with a high-heeled shoe on its cover?" Yes, Sittenfeld, that would be right. Answer C.) Any book with a high-heeled shoe on its cover. In that spirit, I went to Edendale Library on Tuesday, which has like 200 books, including none by Paul Auster or Steve Martin (not the target audience's flava), and I squinted real hard to better see all the pink jackets. And lo and behold they were all chick lit. Bright yellow or turquise covers work just as well.

Maybe I should write Ms. Sittenself (oops, Freudian slip) a letter and tell her "To Kill a Mockingbird" is probably not chick lit. Nor is "The Well of Loneliness." Or "Bonjour Tristesse." But that's stretching it.

Staying Human in L.A.

I heard about a guide to staying human in L.A. Alas, I couldn't find it. Great name, though. And much needed. So good I want to appropriate it.

GOOP

Barf. I just stumbled upon Gwyneth Paltrow's new lifestyle website, goop.com, where she yacks on about how to create a good life. How clever. Such a nifty hipster name. Almost as cool as Apple. Platitudinous Paltrow offers this wisdom: "Make your life good. Invest in what's real. Cook a meal for someone you love. Pause before reacting. Clean out your space. Read something beautiful. Treat yourself to something. Go to a city you've never been to. Learn something new. Don't be lazy. Workout and stick with it. GOOP. Make it great." That last part, "GOOP. Make it great," is priceless. I can't stop gagging. And for moms: "I love being a mother who has to overcome my bad qualities to be a good mother. I love being in spaces that are clean and nice."

Go #$%@ yourself and your cheesy "alternative" husband, whose last album bombed so bad he has to advertise on TV, and move back to Kensington already---or Kenya.

Lot 1 a Lotta Disappointment

As a mommy of an infant it takes me a while to get around to eating at the "new" hot spots like Lot 1 in Echo Park. What a dining failure that was, contrary to hyped reviews in the LA Times et al. We got a steak sandwich, which upon the waitress' recommendation we ordered medium rare. It came overcooked to the point of tasting like the soles of my trainers. The bread was an insipid huge sponge, akin to something you get at Ralphs. The cheese: American Velveeta; the onions oddly sour; the fries mealy wedges of carb. Really, it was a sad interpretation of a Philly Cheese Steak. We should have known from the tasty sounding mint lemonade, which arrived watery with flakes of sad dried mint and just a hint of lemon, dishwater really. Service was attentive and great and Milan had a blast mashing a piece of bready sponge. We have since heard that the original chef, Josef Centeno, has already departed, and he cooked at Opus, a restaurant that was always weirdly empty but very good. They even managed to make a more than passable spätzle.


Ergo: fries better at McDonalds; sandwiches better at Denny's; not that I would eat at either one.

Drop Dead

Dr. S. said this week I have been assigned the role of sad mommy. He said I'm playing my role very well. He said not to worry. Milan would grow up no matter what. Even if I dropped dead. What a comforting thought. Dr. S. is so pragmatic. In the meantime I have my friends. They are "WHITE, OBLONG-shaped, TABLET imprinted with A on the front and 0 7 on the back."

Cattle

Don't go to Lamill. It sucks. Service is rude and unattentive. The place has lost it on all fronts. The carpet is dirty. The aesthetics are losing their shine. The waitresses are losing their smiles. They still look cute in their high-waisted denim, but screw $7.50 for a chai latte or an orange-infused cappuccino. Nevertheless, the place is packed with hipster cattle thriving on the see and be seen thing. Baaaaah.

Spaceland

A good evening is a glass of wine and reading bad vampire novels. A better evening? I don't remember. Going out maybe? S. said she went to Spaceland last week and didn't know anyone. And everyone looked like they were 18. But she also said there were a whole bunch of fat girls there. Back in the day, when we owned Spaceland, there were no fat girls. Like S. said, if you were fat, you just didn't go to Spaceland.

The Moon, Salome

It's a full moon.
I went to Target.
Even the monkey

is frowning.

Darker My Love

I just want to wear black all the time. I haven't felt like that in a long time. Black pants. Black tops. Black jackets. Black nails. Black is the color of objects that do not emit or reflect light in any part of the visible spectrum. Just black. Dead winter branches. Crows. Burned pots. Soulless.

I hate Weekends

I really hate weekends. We never do anything and A. just wants to hang out at the house. Band practice hangs over us like Damocles' sword. The days are boring and long. Reading "The Road" doesn't help. Stark. Cold. Grey Ash.

Before and After

Before:

1. Bangs

2. Skinny jeans
3. Wine tasting
4. Spaceland

5. Shopping for sexy heels

6. Sex
7. Vodka Tonics
8. Girls Night Out

9. Money in the bank
10. Adult conversation

After:

1. Stained Sweats
2. Ponytails
3. Snack n Chats

4. Xanax

5. Parenting Books

6. In bed by 8pm

7. America's Next Top Model

8. Target

9. Shopping for organic bananas

10. My phone is so... silent

I Haba Headache!

Haba toys are de rigeur. They are nice developmentally friendly wooden toys. Everyone loves them. They are made from solid, natural, untreated beech wood that is harvested from sustainable forests. They make a lot of noise when baby clanks them around on the floor. I need an Advil. Seriously, though, I love Haba toys.

Lipstick on a Pig

Regardless of what radio station you turn on, pigs are the talk of the day. That's very American. People like pigs. In Germany, they eat tons. Here, they like them in a blanket. Or with apple sauce. Not so much being pulled over by one. Most people can't tell you what the Bay of Pigs is. Some place in San Francisco perhaps???

I'm Not Judgmental

On Sunday, after a long drive back from Las Vegas, we were chilling in the backyard at A.'s sister's house. S. asked if I'd like some wine. I said yes, and he poured some. It was sweet. Flavored with natural fruit flavors. And it was carbonated. And the bottle was HUGE. No, it wasn't a jeroboam. A sparkling desert wine or a summer rose. It was just bad wine with fruit flavor. It tasted like soda. I didn't complain. Not a peep.

Sew Yourself

And now, ladies and gentle metrosexuals, I get to clean the raw sewage off my bathroom walls. Ever since I had Milan, I clean all the time. On Friday, I had a blister from scrubbing so hard. And now I get to scrub again because the fat plumber (not Gustavo, but almost) trudged all over the house and left small black pebbles behind and who knows what else. You see, he was standing in the raw sewage one moment and the next instant he walked through the bedroom. Nonchalant, a whistle on his lips and a leer for my boobs. Such a nice guy.