Friday, February 29, 2008

11 Months

12 great iPhotos, originally uploaded by medusahead.

Your favorite thing in the world is reading. Or rather, being read to. Now that you have discovered the thrill of moving yourself across the floor with alarming speed, you often skip over the instruments and toys and head straight for the nearest book. You are partial to books about monkeys, cats and lions, in that order. Except you really don't give a squat about the Cat in the Hat. Now, Cats in Pajamas you could read all day and attempt to do so. Kittens in Mittens is a good second choice, but clearly the lesson learned here is that floral pantsuits are much more becoming on a cat than mittens or a natty top hat. I mean, duh.

You enjoy having The Lion's Paw and Baby Boo read to you at approximately the same exact time. I have yet to work out how to hold you and two books open at the same time. In the meantime, you fling one book up in the air, your signal that it's time for me to read to you. We get about two sentences into one book when you throw the other one up in the air which I take from you and start to read...when you fling the other book up into the air. Either I will grow a third arm or your attention span will increase to that of a meth addict's and we might one day actually learn how that friggin lion gets the thorn out of its paw.

As I mentioned before, you are a crawling fool. The pets are terrified by this and that makes me and your father extremely happy. You actually pulled yourself to standing the other day, let go of the ottoman, and promptly fell over and bonked your head pretty hard. You cried. But then you pulled yourself back up. That you are already a tough broad doesn't bear repeating.

You scored a sweet piano from your Pop-Pop and love to tickle the ivories, usually with a wooden spoon. The tambourine kinda scares you, yet you have no problem wailing on the drums like a baby Sheila E with the baby noise reduction headphones your dad bought you. You went to Music for Aardvarks with your dad and chewed a drumstick better than any of the other drumstick chewers. I'm sure you will wind up with your own drum kit at some point soon. Me and my future migraines can't wait.

Light switches, cabinets doors, drawers and dog bowls. The world is suddenly your giant treasure chest. When you are not crawling toward it, you are pointing and scrunching your fingers at it until one of us suckers gives you a ride to your destination. You call to monkeys and cats and dogs (oooh-oooh-oooh) and know that I am mommommommommom. Taking baths makes you so,so happy, and this is how I know you are mine. When your dad and I leave for our Thursday night date, Jessica tells us that she takes you upstairs and you point at our door and cry. And this makes me cry, too.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Pets for Sale

Three Fine Pets to a Good Home

The Kitten a.k.a The Kitten

Fine Attributes include:

destroying any piece of furniture in the house, especially new furniture

drinking out of your water glass, even if you place a heavy book over it and walk away for 30 seconds

eating food off the dining room table

eating food off of the kitchen island

running underfoot as you carry laundry down the stairs

running underfoot while you carry the baby upstairs

purposely tripping you while carrying knives fresh from the dishwasher

crying until you personally escort him to eat his food

perching on the ledge of the tub and staring at you while you try to read a magazine

shedding hair that retains the same texture as spun sugar

hairballs. hairballs. hairballs.

The Donkey a.k.a Murphy

loves to bark while your child attempts to nap

loves to bark while you attempt to nap

will kill the mailman if given the chance

eats the baby's food out of her hands and her lap

"accidentally" runs over the baby while she's on the floor

lunges and barks at children on the street, especially if they are on wheels

appears to be anti-semitic

despite hundreds and hundreds of dollars spent on training, responds to commands only if he feels like it

scratches himself nightly, next to the bed, usually at about 3 AM

when kicked out of the bedroom, will either bark at something imagined or sleep on the people-only couch

The Elder Statesman a.k.a Andy a.k.a 2nd Fattest Cat in LA

craps on the floor of your house, sometimes behind a potted plant. Sometimes in it. Usually just in plain view.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Monday, February 25, 2008



1. Harlow stood on her own. And promptly fell down. But she got right back up!

2. Harlow can make monkey sounds on cue.

And I hate to overshadow the brilliance that is #1 and #2 but OH MY FREAKIN GOD MY HEAD JUST MIGHT EXPLODE FROM EXCITEMENT because this woman is moving back to Memphis:

She's basically the world's smartest blonde (don't be fooled by the You Tubeage), Americas's Next Top sexiest acupuncturist/former karaoke DJ and my best friend of twenty years.

And because she hates most foods, I think she'll fit in with the readers of this blog just fine.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Reading is Fun

2 great iPhotos, originally uploaded by medusahead.

Thursday, February 21, 2008


These days I'm more of a girl, but back in my LA single days (er, 3 months), I was all about Babble's hot, dirty, I don't wash and play bass kid brother site Nerve, a literary smut site. So imagine my delight - my seriously covered in snot, partially digested banana and cheerio delight - to be interviewed by Nerve for their Dating Advice from a...fill in the blank series. Today's column is Dating Advice from former bridesmaids with yours truly!

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Hello Gorgeous

Yes you are smart and brave and funny and have a wicked backhand and will be known for all those things.

But man you sure are purty.

Especially when your face doesn't have snot covering 3/4 of it.

Monday, February 18, 2008


It is a mystery to me how you can be coughing up a lung and running a fever and leaking out of your nose all over your face and still have the energy of a nuclear power plant. AND be cute, to boot.

I will say that we will not be repeating the 12-2 nap as it pretty much made her cry until she went to bed for the night. But this did not stop her from learning to show me where my nose is, where my belly button is, mimicking a pretty dead-on yay! when we clapped our hands and handing me some weird shit she found on the carpet for me to inspect. Apparently she has no such compunction with cat hair, which she still finds dee-lic-ious.

The Sucks Report

1. Harlow's month long cold/flu hybrid

2. Looking bad in grey.

3. Never feeling settled.

4. Constantly cleaning, but the house never looks like we do.

5. I don't know how to quit you, Coke.

6. Murphy

7. Andy

8. The Kitten

9. Pets in general.

10. the compulsion to buy cilantro and Italian parsley everytime I grocery shop, forgetting that I did, buying more and adding to it the decomposed mess in the produce drawer

11. The Memphis Flea Market

12. Ditch the Bitch and Lets Go Fishing stickers at the flea market

13. People contemplating buying the above stickers unironically

13. Trucks of puppies at the flea market

14. Testifying at 201 Poplar

15. ID'ing the wrong guy in the lineup

16. hypoglycemia

17. not being able to find girl scouts selling cookies at predictable haunts

18. cornmeal pancakes without the 3 tablespoons of butter that was supposed to go in it

19. snot. lots of it.

20. catching 10 Things I Hate About You with Heath and just being really sad

Friday, February 15, 2008

My Big Apple Part 3

Where was I?

Oh - I'm now in our new room at the Lafayette House. They had to switch us to a nicer room. Not sure what was wrong with the old one as it had the unexpected amenity of lighting that made my skin look an airbrushed calendar model's. I get over it when I cozy into a lovely sitting area across from a roaring fire and a complimentary bottle of wine. I can't stop taking pictures of myself in the smoked glass. I want to cover every surface of my house with this stuff. Jen's cousin and her husband arrive for drinks and I take a few, tentative sips of the French red they brought with them. Nothing like spewing vomit at a fancy Fashion week after party, so I go slow.

The models are trying for kids. Not at this exact moment, but they are discussing it. I cannot even imagine the uber-dimpled polite future smoking hot blonde to spring from such a pairing. Well, clearly I have.

7:30 The lobby of the Bowery Hotel. This has the same dark wood, candlelight and clubby vibe as the Chateau, but not as snotty. I have an insanely yummy Pimms Cup with Michael and Blossom, two of Jen's photographers, and a 10 on the Nice New Yorker scale. Michael tells a story about the most unique wedding he'd ever seen. The couple, also photographers, rented out a warehouse where they had setup a boxing ring. The invitations were letterpressed boxing match invitations. The bride and groom entered in early 1900s-style bathing suits and "boxed," kissing and slow dancing while the ref married them - via kazoo. he lifted up their arms in victory. Floral sashes were draped over the newly married couple and a marching band appeared and escorted them and their guests to a reception. Kickass, no?

There's an Olsen twin lounging on the couch and Paul Dano's at the bar. I could get seriously cozy with another Pimms but it's time to scoot.

9:00 The Rodarte after-party hosted by Kim Gordon. Thank God its a bunch of models here because the food is fantastic, free and there's plenty left for me. I have 2 - count em - 2 elderflower vodkas. I have no idea what that is, tastes vaguely of grapefruit, and gets the job done. Paul the architect arrives with his lovely friend Jen (NNY : 10) and I meet yet another lovely Jen of the New York Times. It's really inspiring to be around such motivated, creative thinkers. And then there is Ryan Adams, chatting with my Jen while I linger behind her like a shy little geisha. He is all crazy talk with the hands and oral fixation and squirrely. Apparently he is on the prowl after going through a breakup. He does not even look at me as "we" part company. Sniff. I'm not into flirting with crazy, cool indie rock stars anyway. Except the one I married,of course.

12:30 I am a pumpkin. Yes, it's my last night, but it's also the first night in about 5 years that I've had 2 vodkas within 30 minutes of each other.


9:00 AM oops. Didn't mean to sleep this late. And, oops, meant to drink more than a teacup of water before I went to bed. This is gonna hurt.

9:30 Gemma Restaurant next to the Bowery. Baked eggs with prosciutto, avocado and tomato sauce. Cornmeal pancakes with vanilla butter and bosch pear compote. Brioche smeared with nutella. And hangover tea. Yes, it is as insanely delicious as it sounds. We sit next to a wild-haired Italian model agent who rolls calls in English, French and dahling-ese. Oh you people. You're making me miss LA.

10:45 Headphones in. Man, I love this walking thing. Zero 7 narrates my stroll through the Lower east side over to Sons and Daughters. After all this shopping for mama, it's time to pick up some birthday presents for the baby doll. Lucky for all of us, they, too, are having a 50% sale. She gets the cutest top and skirt I've ever seen. And a coloring book. And a towel. And a guide to shadow puppets. I really, really need to leave or this is gonna get ugly fast.

11:30 After dropping my bags off at the Sherry-Netherland where my dad is staying, Jen and I meander through Central Park and take pictures of ourselves as Posh Spice. jen is way better at it then me.

t is 65 degrees. I am wearing short sleeves. It was 30 degrees and snowing 2 days ago. The light is diffused through clouds and the park is stripped bare of foilage. It's still breathtaking and calm. A nanny strolls by with a pink Silver Cross pram. I wonder if she's ever had to take that thing on the subway.

1:00 Jen and I say goodbye in front of the Sherry-Netherland. The rain comes, and I pop open my umbrella and stroll with the masses through midtown. I've got an hour to kill before I meet my dad, and looky-here. Henri Bendel just happens to be on my path.

2:00 Dad and I text each other as I hurry down 5th Avenue, chocolates for Caleb tucked under my arm. The rain is falling in earnest. Our ride is waiting. My dad and I kiss hello like old New Yorkers, and I tell him we really need to meet like this more often. I say goodbye to NYC.

Because I am minutes shy of tossing my computer out the window from uploading problems, here's a link to more pics.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Breaking News!

We interrupt our overdue post on the last 40 hours in NYC to tell you not that she is really crawling, which she is, or that she is trying to grab things by using the baby force by pointing and screaming at it, which is really cute and kinda annoying, or that she has eaten and loved roast chicken and graham crackers and raisins and homemade pancakes and pasta. All true and all so not the point when I tell you that Baby Girl went to bed at 8 and we did not see her sweet face again until 6:30.

I'm still doing the dance of joy.

Friday, February 08, 2008

My Big Apple Part 2


8:00 AM

Why is Jen staring at me in horror? Oh right, because my breasts look like they are about to give birth to Stonehenge. Oh my god this hurts. What hurts slightly more? Pumping and pouring this liquid gold down the drain.


Fix hair? Eat breakfast? Fix hair? Eat breakfast. I choose wisely. This is the weirdest sounding, looking breakfast but wow this tastes like heaven. Ricotta with poached figs, candied almonds and honey. Breakfast manicotti, if you will. I take a picture of it.

The Nice New Yorker asks about my camera and I let her study it. And thus begins my series Nice New Yorkers. Who knew? This bakery is adorable, by the way. Falai Panetteria. For my general health, it's a good thing it's thousands of miles away.

11:10 My car (my CAR!) picks me up from the Lower East Side and I'm off to midtown to pick up Jen. I tell the driver 5 Ave of the Americas at Walker. Benecio Del Toro replies that it is not possible, or that the intersection no longer exists. I show him the piece of paper with the scribbled down address. I think he is saying that we cannot go that way, or that the only thing he fears is Keyser Soze. I'm not sure. He has the charming habit of asking a question that sounds like a statement and stating something that sounds like a question, and then sending the rest through a blender. Oh wait. He's saying "parade," as in look at the 3 million people jammed into the intersection to cheer on the Giants. Don't these people know we have to get to Fashion Week? He is starting to cut through my Zoloft happy haze. It's a minor miracle that we pick up Jen. We're off to Chelsea.


A blank, white loft. A sea of black, gray and studied nonchalance ebbs and flows against Freddie, the charming English listkeeper who has the thankless task of checking in the masses. We are handed thick letterpressed invitations that Freddie has scribbled on the back. It looks like a game of hangman. It's our seat assignments. Jen's in section F. I am "ST" for standing, according to the scribble. No prob. Who cares. I'm in.


Models walk through their final choreography, and by girls I mean upright antelopes with legs made of angelhair pasta. Strapped to their feet are gold studded six inch nasties that would make a hooker blanche. Much has been made of skinny models and BMIs and anorexia and seeing them in person, I want to cram them all inside an Olive Garden and padlock the entrance.


Backstage. Jen ambles off to check in with two of her artists working the show, so I ogle. The models are hidden in a swathe of hairspray, stylists and photographers. Karen Elson, a.k.a. Mrs. Jack White Stripes wiggles into a sleek pair of pants, her trademark red hair rolled into an artistic, extremely unflattering chignon. Did you mean to lose your eyebrows? I'll help you find them. Agyness Deyn whose bleached, cropped existence I learned of the day before, chats with Italian Vogue. I eat a doughnut.


I'm standing with Jen's cousin The Model and her jawdroppingly hot supermodel husband, a celebrity in his native Norway. Her dimples are something of a distraction. I think you could stick a straw in one and they'd stay put. How does a girl from MIssissippi get bone structure like that? They may be the nicest people I've ever met, and I find this patently unfair. I am told Anna Wintour is seated front row center, but I cannot see through the blockade of photograghers fighting to snap her picture. Ooh, there's Nina Garcia, fashion drector of Elle Magazine and resident bitch goddess of Project Runway. Oh, who am I kidding? That's Michael Kors role and sadly he's nowhere to be found. A woman, I'm guessing in her sixties, enters and causes a minor commotion. Short red bob, dead animals, tights, tartan. I am told she is the French Anna Wintour, and I am wondering how French women remain so chic if this is their arbiter of style. The woman looks like she was dressed by a blind, Scottish centaur. Hey, there's Vincent Gallo. Hey, there's Ryan Adams. Hey, that's a 50 pound camera slamming into my shoulder. The cameraman apologizes sincerely, putting the Nice New Yorker count for the day thus far to 4.


Showtime. Electric synth announces the girls arrival. It's not a tradtional "walk the runway" show as they are moving through a loft space. The girls are staggered and meet up two by two and kinda have a strut-off, and by strut I mean a wooden thump/clomp as they manage to propel those string cheese legs on towers of vinyl. Even the seasoned audience is wincing. But the choreography is pretty cool. The clothes are...interesting. Oh, but I like these pants. And ooh the gowns. The makeup is kind of alien blank, the hair pulled into buns with a geometric, black triangle spray painted in back. The models flood the stage, followed by the Rodarte girls who offer a brief curtsy before scurrying off stage. They were in a talon's length of French Vogue Lady, so I can't say I blame them.


Show's over. The masses exit into one stairwell - yelling FIRE! would be a very sick joke - and models from the show fight their way down the stairs. A 15 year old Russian girl rips pins from her hair while yelling WHUT THAM EES EET? Mr. Norway announces that it's 12:50 and flashes a smile. She melts into a little Russian Volta.


Backstage again. Jen's talking to Ryan Adams. Kim Gordon is talking to one of the Rodarte girls. Vincent Gallo is talking about himself.


Hey is that April from America's Next Top Model Cycle 3? Good for you, April! Is that Eliza Dushku? Is that really the entirety of my celebrity fix for the day?


We walk to lunch behind Agyness Deyn whose blonde spikes peek up above a dramatic, floor length red coat. She's like a postmodern Red Riding Hood.


A decent lunch of penne and prosciutto at Bettino with the Models' friends the Architect and the Artist. They are so insanely nice (NNY:6) and genuinely interested in me, my plans for my visit, the pics of Harlow I whip out every 5 minutes. When did I become such a mom?


Lower East Side. Jen and I score some major shopping deals. Is this a holiday? Or right, Happy Recession! $20 shoes! Skinny rocker jeans for 50% off!


A snack at the Pink Pony. Ah the French Onion soup, the beets, the accordion music. I just love Paris.

To be continued...

Thursday, February 07, 2008

My Big Apple Part 1

Monday 7:25

Caleb and Baby Girl take me to the airport. I kiss my daughter. I kiss her again and rub her head. I think I might cry. Yep, there's a tear. I check in and immediately bypass all the suckers in line for the NW security line and head for Delta. This is the best kept secret in Memphis. Don't tell anybody. I join the 4 other people in line at security. I send my things through, and one of my bags causes a ruckus. It's taken over to a metal slab where several employees pilfer through my breast pump and test it for explosives. I assure them that the only exploding to occur will be my breasts if I can't take that pump on board. Then, two men in suits and sunglasses appear at the word "exploding" and take me into a holding cell where I am waterboarded and coerced to sign a document that says I think its swell that they did away with hot meals in favor of $5 snack boxes. Ok, not really. But they do ask me if it hurts when I use it. I say no. They don't appear convinced.


When did Vanity Fair become Old Billionaire divorces Lady So and So for the nanny and is sued by the butler who was having a Fling with his secretly gay son Magazine?

Flawless. Plane touches down in NYC. I get my bag. I chat with a lady in the cab line who pushes her 10 month old in a stroller. Everybody coos at him and I wish Harlow was with me. I'm in the cab and see the manhattan skyline. I'm kinda psyched Harlow isn't with me.


My cab driver is losing his shit. He can't believe this place is a hotel. He has driven past this spot everyday for years and did not know this was a hotel. I think I have made his year. I lug my bag up the steep steps and press the buzzer to a red brownstone. Honestly, if it weren't for the sign, I wouldn't know it was a hotel either. Jenny, blonde, pale, in tan calf high boots, lets me in. The room isn't ready, but when I mention boobs exploding, she makes the room ready.

So let me back up. This place is unlike any hotel I have ever stayed. It was designed by Sean Macpherson, the guy responsible for the Chateau Marmont in LA and the Bowery Hotel just around the corner. But right now, it is as if I entered an Edith Wharton novel. I am the ingenue in turn of the century New York come to stay with my eccentric spinster aunt in her ramshackle digs downtown. Painted portaits line the walls. Smoked glass mirrors. Purple paint and crystal sconces. We're in #4. I pump, and then search for jenny. There is no reception desk. There is no Jenny. I wander around the house, up and down stairs, until a housekeeper takes pity on me and leads me to a small office where a guy gives me my keys. No reception desk. No other guests. I love it.


I am at the B Bar next door eating the most amazing butternut squash soup with pumpkin seeds and cinnamon. Killer nicoise salad. It's a Mexican-French-American fusion. This shouldn't work. But it really, really does.


My hair appointment is in ten minutes. I walk through Soho and take a lap around H&M with no luck. However, I score a $30 coat and some cheap, cute green patent leather heels at Zara. I take this as a good sign.


Where the hell is Dop Dop? Why is Houston St. pronounced HOW-ston instead of HYOO-ston?


When I get to the salon, if I ever find it, the plan is this: Mia Farrow it. Chop it off. Bleach blonde. Oooh, or cut some bangs and go dark. Either way, it's time to get radical.


Found it! Noelle does my hair. No, she paints my hair, like an artist. It's seriously pretty cool, having someone pay that kind of attention to your hair. Unfortunately, this kind of attention will take 3 hours. And because I am a complete wuss, I leave slightly blonder with a trim. Yawn. It does look pretty, though.


God I love this city. I love walking with everybody, feeling the energy. God I miss being able to walk everywhere. Wait, I lived in LA and Memphis. I never walked anywhere. I don't know what I'm talking about.




Dinner at Balthazar. I get roast chicken and some yummy wine. The hostess and I have on the exact same dress. Fortunately no one asks me to change their reservation. Paul, hairdresser to the stars, dines with us and bitches about Vincent Gallo being fickle. I nod and look sympathetic. He congratulates me on not chopping my hair off. Not that it wouldn't look fabulous, he says. But in Memphis, it would basically be a big blonde frizzfro.


We arrive at another restaurant to pick up Jen's friend Michelle, a manager of some very famous rock bands. Two of her very famous artists are dining with her. We all walk to a nearby bar where the artists, a married couple, show us pictures of their kid on their Iphone. I nod and try to be cool. They think Memphis is cool. I am suddenly cool by proxy. They discuss the lineup of what songs they will play at an upcoming fashion show. I secretly snap a pic of one of them with my Iphone. I am such a dork. Oh my god I can't drink this drink. It's way too spicy rum. Hey - the bartender is their bass player. Why is he tending bar? This rock star gig should pay more.


It is so awesome being with cool people because we don't have to wait in line. Did I mention it is 30 degrees and drizzling and my blowout is beginning to resemble something my cat threw up?


We have taken a time machine and landed in 1985. Everyone is in faded, high waisted jeans, white heels and day-glo. Of course, this is Chloe Sevigny's party. The Slits are playing, an all-girl punk band. 80,000 of Chloe's closest friends are here to help her celebrate the debut of her clothing line, and the one smoker is right behind me. Paul the hair stylist and I get smoked on for about 10 minutes while we try to look pitiful enough to get the bartender's attention. I get a vodka cranberry, well more like next to the bottle of cranberry. Oh my god I can't drink this drink either. It goes in the trash. Paul, some dude who works with The Cobrasnake who, of course, is one of Jen's artists, and a pixie named Lydia with green eye liner and Debra Winger hair traipse off to heiress Amanda Hearst's party. Jen and I go home to our aunt's house and fall into a deep, deep sleep. Until 6 AM when our alarm goes off.

Start Spreading the News...That it is God's Will I Will Never Leave Town Again

I didn't REALLY expect a disaster to strike when I left town. Maybe she wouldn't take a bottle for the first couple times he offered. Maybe she would cry all night because her mommy wasn't there to nurse her to sleep and poor daddy would rock her for hours, cursing mama's name. It would suck for him and he'd find ways to rub it in for months. Sucky, but not a disaster. Nothing like, say, a tornado blowing through town and decimating part of the city. A tornado. In Memphis. In February. To his credit, because he didn't want to scare me, he waited until after he and Harlow were in the basement when the power went out, when the radio ordered Shelby County citizens to immediately seek shelter, to call me. Of course, they were fine. Well, baby girl still had the Croup - the unF-ING-believable Croup that struck the night I left, but no more tornadoes. Geez, why's God gotta be all up in my grill and shit? Mama just wanted a quick little break.

And mama got a quick little break.

More on that to come.

For our movie-worthy reunion? She took one look at me, then started waving and the dog. Missed you too, sweet baby.

Sunday, February 03, 2008


I already miss you.

I have pumped and planned and fretted and worried and put the entire population of Catholics in the US to shame with my guilt.

I know you are going to be fine. You are probably gonna be a little pissed that the magical boobs are suddenly gone, but you've got a pretty awesome daddy who is gonna have a bottle or cup of the good stuff anytime you ask for it.

I'm gonna wake up in the city that doesn't sleep and find that my boobs have exploded and my heart has broken because my sweet baby is not beside me. So it's up to you, New York, New York, to make sure I have a good time. Or at least score a killer pair of shoes. Nothing like a little retail therapy to work out the mama angst.

Friday, February 01, 2008

Not fun, Can't Sleep List

1. It's a lot more fun saying You Got Served than being served. Especially before dawn. With the wakeage of husband and baby and psychotic dog. And your driveway being blocked like you're gonna run.
2. It's kinda fun feeling like an outlaw for about .00045 seconds
3. It's not fun answering your door before dawn before looking in the mirror and later noticing the dried blood on your face
4. It's not fun having your nose almost broken by the psychotic dog the night before
5. But 3 and 4 are really kinda funny put together
6. It's not fun having a strange person come by your place of business
7. Then show up in front of your home
8. Especially on the same day as #1
9. It's not fun when you stopped believing in coincidences
10. Not sleeping is not fun