Adoption

Is Michael Cera available for adoption? I mean, I've always wanted to have one biological child and one adopted one. I mean, he's not from Ghana or Namibia or even Florida (or is he? he's from Canada, no?), but still, he may be in need of loving support from a family. What with all of his fame and not. So, if you know his agent or his "people", will you put the word out for me?

Beats Me

That reminds me. I met Alan Ginsberg before he died at some little book store in La Jolla. He drank chamomile tea and he was a real asshole.

Sorry

Uhm, sorry Anais Nin. It has been grand, but I've got to move on. A tout à l'heure! (i.e. toodles). You'll always have a special place in my heart (oops, bookshelf).

Hero

Where can I get a last-minute live serpent to drape around my neck for tomorrow's barbecue? And belladonna to enlarge my eyes? I actually have belladonna, but it's in little pellets. Maybe if I grind it up and dissolve it in water? But the snake remains a hurdle. You see, I have a new hero: No, not octomom. The Marchesa Casati!

"Why don't you...

wash your child's blonde hair in Champagne?
build a private staircase from your bedroom to your library and cover the stairs in needlepoint?
have your bed made in China?
have a yellow satin bed entirely quilted in butterflies?
remember how delicious Champagne cocktails are after tennis or golf?

Soul Mates

Having dinner with R. was fantastic, despite the bistro's adamant refusal to do "substitutions." What, are you a Michelin-rated gourmet temple? No, you're just a 3/4 empty (hello recession, asshole) neighborhood joint. But still. Brought up important question: What if your soul mate, with whom you have crazy, mind-altering sex, doesn't want a commitment even after 2 years; and then, because your bio clock is ticking and you are tired of LA Peter Pans anyway, you "settle" with a nice man who makes a good father and husband? Who loves you and makes you feel safe and who is funny and tall and good-looking, but just not, well, your soul mate? What about that? Huh?

Downer

Who needs Valium? Passing people washing their clothes at a fluorescent-lit laundromat at 8pm on a Saturday night can be a real downer.

Downers = depressant drugs, which are any chemical agent that diminishes the function or activity of the central nervous system, and usually in a pleasurable way.

Horrorshow

I'm down to taking just a quarter of the R. and with less serotonin to keep me calm come the usual anxieties. Self-induced I must say. Why did I have to watch face transplant videos on youtube? A man without a tongue. A baby born with two faces and four eyes. In India of course. I feel like throwing up and crying at the same time. I keep imagining Milan being attacked by dogs. It's like an obsession. Must stop this. It's like I'm back to my old habit of horrors: slasher movies, faces of death, human experiments, serial killers, nightmares...

horrorshow: Part of the 'Nadsat' vocabulary used by Alex in Anothony Burgess' Novel 'A Clockwork Orange'. Horrorshow was derived by Burgess from the Russian word 'Khorosho' meaning well or good.

Mommy Couture

Dr. Scholl's. I'm bringing them back 'sall uhm sayin...

Mania

The manic phase has begun. I'm a genius. I am so happy I could burst. Flowers pop everywhere, almost turning into sounds. Sounds turning into colors turning into words turning into lines that form Matisse paintings that bleed into Dali landscapes that make my arms itch with joy and it all brings me closer to the abyss, because you cannot fly to the sun and expect not to be burned.

I'm Not OK, You're OK

After decades of wanting to read this damn book I finally hold it in my hands and it is totally disappointing. The whole thing sums up as: I live on the premise that I'm Not OK, You're OK. Which is better than I'm Not OK, You're Not OK or I'm not, what the fuck. I am basically a child. I knew that already. I wanna send an email to XYZ saying: "I know that you don't like me and I know that you know that I know. And I don't like you either. But I didn't start this whole thing. I liked you OK, but then you JUDGED me, so then I JUDGED you, so now we are NOT OK." I asked A. and J. and S. if I should send this email or quietly fade into the sunset. The sunset, they said.

Teenagers

Teenagers love to take naked pictures of themselves, stick their tongue out, smoke weed, get drunk and say things like "that shirt is so sick it makes me puke." Completely normal and acceptable behavior. If your teenager doesn't go through that, he or she is missing out on important developmental milestones.

Remembrances of Past Things

Steve Martin makes fun of Proust. Easy target. Shows literary and wit yet sneaky. Anyone can do that. Like Germans toasting and saying proust instead of prost.

Remembrances of Things Past

Every generation deplores the past, saying things ain’t what they used to me, and it’s always true, for everyone. Thrift stores aren’t what they used to be either, but I’m rediscovering a taste for the hunt. And I don’t think it’s the economy, an action born of necessity, but rediscovering a lost part of me. A rare book. A cool vintage candle holder. Random tchotchkes that can be turned into found object art à la Rauschenberg. Today I got “I’m Ok, You’re Ok” and “Big Mama Makes the World” (no, not yours truly) for Milan and some cool jeans for $5. I want things that have been around, that have wrinkles of time.

Grandma

I talked to my grandma today and she was coherent. Told me to kill the ants with olive oil. And asked how my moths were doing. See, she remembers. I told her I miss picking flowers with her in the spring.

Shopping Woes

Now that my part-time job has become a part-part-part-time job, I have time for exercise. Just kidding. The larger problem is shopping. Or the future absence of this most effective stress-reducing activity. But how many "cute outfits" does a person need? How many pants does an 18-month-old need? Can I get through the summer with just two shorts and four dresses I like? What will "people" think if they see me in the same shirt over and over again? It's not like I'm Karl Lagerfeld or a Wall Street shark who has 24 of the same Brioni suit.

Pure Drivel

Steve Martin is insane. And absurd. Like his friend said, one "a" short of being a Martian. In a good way. I think I have a new hero. Reading Shop Girl was pretty cool. But Pure Drivel is just crazy. I had to read aloud from it to A., who never laughs at anything I find funny (like New Yorker cartoons). A. said he's touring the US playing banjo now. Like I said. My new hero.

So...

So, I've been noticing that I and everyone else starts

1. an email
2. a conversation

with a "so".

why is that?

Beat on the brat with a baseball bat...

Went to one of these dreadful snack and chats where we always run out of time for the real attraction: the speaker. But I did walk away with some useful nonviolent parenting tools. Key: Child-led. Everything. Create an environment in which you do not have to say "no." Lovely approach. Very humane. Later told my British mommy friends and they said fuck that. We're British. No means no. End of story. That's why there are so many fucked up kids here who need super nanny, because they know no boundaries. So now I'm confused again.

Mama Mia

Speaking of mothers: A's has bought six acres of the Ozarks, where she lives in a tent. And where she's slowly going blind.

Enjoyment

Dr. S. said this morning that there should be some enjoyment in life. That's an understatement for some, a sisyphusian task pour moi. The key: approach everything (especially Milan and mothering) with playfulness. I must remember this. Play. And lessen the gulf between the mother I think I ought to be and the mother I can be.

Friends Again

A nice cup off coffee with D. who popped over and brought Belgian chocolates and stories of Prague Spring ('68), David Bowie in Berlin and Maurice Sendak took care of that shiteous feeling. I feel so much better. I deleted A's voicemail without listening to it. I wash my hands off everything.

Frenemies

A. calls me out of the blue (i.e. heroin addiction recovery) and says he wants to be friends again but in order to do so I need to personally invite N. as well to make her feel comfortable and important and basically cater to her and not make her feel like a second class citizen. Then he says I can only call him during emergencies, Wed. through Friday from 6pm-11pm; otherwise A. has to call him. And once, ten years ago or whatever I supposedly made fun of her last name, saying it's German, as if that were such a horrible thing. And I recall many many instances when I went out of my way to invite both A and N, always using plural on the answer machine. But as I just told him, I don't have the energy to put up with the foibles of an insecure adult person (I have a toddler) and I cannot live by rules such as only calling during certain times of the week at certain times. I mean who can keep track of such shit? And A. said, well, maybe that means that we'll be seeing less of each other... when really, I haven't seen in him in probably four months. So I hung up on him. I will never forget the time he facilitated getting me out of the psych ward and holding me all night when I was too scared to live, and visiting him when he was in a coma, and we have a lot of history together... This is so very sad. But I just don't have the energy for it.

Spelling

Shit. I can't even spell psychedelic anymore without a spell checker. Maybe I do need to be audited after all. I could blame it on the Mother's Day mimosa and too much coffee at large. But that'd be a cop-out. A copy editor who can't spell. Wow.

I Know What You Did Last Summer

Last summer was pretty good. That's because I was in Europe for the first half, eating real croissants and drinking good coffee and dressing up and talking about architecture. This year I'll be in LA. But like my good friend J. said: Let's have a really good summer! There's the beach and berry picking and Hollywood Forever and I have yet to experience that elusive dinner party with kids. It's going to be a summer of love---minus the psychedelic drugs and flowers in my hair.

Dianetics

Sometimes I go to a thrift store or some place and wait for a book to literally fall into my hands. On Friday it was: Self-Analysis by L. Ron Hubbard. Surprisingly, I scored immensely high on the emotional tone scale. Looks like I don't need a whole lot of clearing or auditing or whatever. The only real issue is my high suggestibility and the ease with which I can be hypnotized. But otherwise, pretty good. It's a fascinating read. In the beginning was the word, and that word was survival. The goal of life: Survival. And theta merely means life force. I was told it referred to aliens. Hm....

Image above: Hubbard audits a tomato.

Adam to my Eve

Fucking homophobia is driving me crazy. Adam is a rock god. He is a sex god. He is destined for greatness. If I was ten years younger, I'd totally convert him.

Just the Two of Us

I know a Dad (NOT A.) who is pretty good looking, tall, a hipster, an artist, a great musician, pretty artsy and cool and nice all around, and he is married to a fat woman. I can't believe there are two of us. I always wonder what people are thinking. If they pity A. or what.

Fat Obsession Reaches New Lows

Today at circa 8 p.m. PST, a fat local woman was found frantically squeezing into flimsy summer dresses at the Glendale location of popular Armenian hang-out ROSS: Dress for Less. After several futile efforts, she gave up and bought a two-seasons-ago LeSportsac wallet and a Dr. Seuss DVD for $2.99. She then walked to her car wondering why Armenians are perpetually scowling. Must be the 1915 Genocide.

Gas Stations

Now that I'm a home owner I got a letter in the mail asking if I want to buy one---or some---of the local gas stations. For a moment I pictured the turn my life would take... just kidding.

Freudian Slip

Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath. Sylvie Plath.

Dinner Guests

K. asked me, OK, which five dead people would you invite to your dinner party? Let's see: The Marquis de Sade, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Dorothy Parker... This is so hard. Andy Warhol? John Lennon? Gandhi? Paramahansa Yogananda? Sylvie Plath? Jean-Paul Sartre? I think I would definitely need talkers, people who can hold forth in a salon setting without killing each other with the salad forks. And Miller and Nin as a combo might be kind of lame. As to alive people: David Bowie, Bret Easton Ellis, Francis Bacon (is he alive?), Nithyananda, Joan Didion.

Friends are Not 4ever

Just when I thought I lost a friend, I gained six. But it's hard. I was talking to J. and she described to me a fantastic setting of kicking it with the kiddies, eating, drinking, smoking and fantabulating while the little ones run around in their jammies, and it's all good vibes and good fun and the kids are totally included. And I'm sad, because I don't have that and don't know if I ever will. But what I do have is D. with stories of selling John Lennon his first car and spying on Twiggy in her kitchen and X and Y and Z and U and K, all smart and artists and intellectual and fun. And I just once again need to learn to be OK with what is vs. what is not.

Fecal Matters

As M. is upstairs banging his head against the crib I'm talking to my Mom on Skype. Says she of the great advice: It's time for potty training. And if he makes a nice poop, you reward him. I'm like, reward him with what? With chocolate! But mom, Milan doesn't eat chocolate. Well, yeah, that poor little thing never gets to eat anything good. Never even gets a cookie or sweets. That poor little thing. I'm going to send him a care package. And my Dad goes, yeah, you can show him pictures of other kids pooping so he will get used to it, and you know he can eat "Kinderschokolade." It's especially made for kids. Yeah, it's so good for you, I had seven fillings by the time I was 7. That might be a bit hyperbolic. But still.