"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.