Lazy Crazy Baby Mama...

It's been a week of illness over here. I came down with a very scary case of mastitis on Saturday... serves me right for being so smug about breastfeeding. Then, M got sick, and Little Homie and I fell like dominos. The Girl seems better, and I feel fine, but The Boy still has a cough.

I was so sure that nursing would protect ze bebe. Ha. Ha. Ha. I'm almost ready to switch to formula since my boobies are clearly a lot less magical than I thought.

Anyway, I leave you with these pictures:

The last time my boobs got me into trouble was on the Bay Bridge driving back from Cat Club with a group of friends. Every Thursday night, in the last few months before I met B, my friends and I would make the drive from Berkeley to San Francisco for a night of revelry and bacchanalian experimentation at our favourite club. The venue was renowned in the area for playing the best assortment of '80's music, and for attracting a goodybag of club-hoppers including the Euro-Fabulous, the Body-Modified, the Hells Angels, the Boys-into-Boys and Girls-into-Girls, the prerequisite college students, and even a few folks who danced to '80's music before it became kitsch -- you know, back in the actual '80's.. I longed for Thursday nights: I would shimmy into black pleather pants so tight they squeaked when I tried to sit down in them, and since my boobs had yet to meet my belly button, I dressed them up in an assortment of halter tops, the likes of which M will never be allowed to wear.

I fell in madly in love with '80's music during my time at Cat Club. The perky, upbeat songs were addicting, and unlike most clubs which take themselves way too seriously, Cat Club was always fun. And, given the close proximity of the youth hostels to the club, there was a true international flavor on the dance floor: When "Come on Eileen" began to play, the Irish would whoop and holler. When the first few bars of 'Land Down Under' filled the club, the Australians bulldozed their way into the center of the action. And as soon as '99 Luft Balons' came on, a gaggle of screaming Germans would flock to the middle of the dance floor.

My girlfriend, K, knowledgeable in all things alcohol, introduced me to the best club drink imaginable called "Bull in a China Shop," a concoction of Red Bull, Grenadine, raspberry-flavoured Vodka, and lots of those sweet red cherries, and as soon as we got in to Cat Club, I would saunter up to the bar, flirt with the incredibly beautiful tattooed bartender, and order my new signature drink. Warmed by the vodka and fueled by the Red Bull, I'd get up to dance, and usually, after another Bull in a China Shop chased by a few free beers, I would end up with my girlfriends in the cage, bumping and grinding and attracting a lot of attention.

It was after one of these nights, high on attention and adrenaline, and drunk off my ass, that I sat in the passenger seat of K's sky blue bug, singing La Vie Boheme from RENT at the top of my lungs. We passed a SUV full of rowdy guys, whooping and hollering at us. They honked their horn.

"Honk back!" I urged K.

She was miserably sober, and glared at me.

The guys waved, leaning their tan and toned arms out the window, reaching for our car. So, I blithely waved back, immune to any sense of danger at the age of 23. K pulled ahead, and the SUV dropped back, but, within a moment or two, it was riding along side of us again - a clown car of debauchery. Then, two of the guys wriggled around in the backseat, sort of stood up, pulled their pants down, and mooned us. Not to be outdone by their hairy asses, I undid my haltertop and flashed them. (Hi Dad, and Various Family Members. Hi Future Prospective Employers. Hi Little Homie. Hi M.)

At the time, I thought I was making a powerful feminist statement against double-standards: If men could get away with flashing their bare bottoms, why couldn't I flash my bare chest? In hindsight, I was out of my mind. Well, shocked by my brazenness, the driver of the SUV swerved into our lane, and K with the reflexes of a cat, hit the accelerator just in time. We pulled ahead of the careening SUV, skipped over a few lanes, and made it back to Berkeley safe and sound.

And that was that. From then on, I kept my boobs under wraps.

Moving Right Along...

Please forgive me for my vanishing act. To make it up to you, I'm up at 6:19 am with a milk-drunk baby slumbering in my lap trying to blog.

It's been an exciting week over here. The Girl Child has another toddler virus, which means very little sleep and a series of breathless calls to the pediatrician. The Boy Child is growing, growing, growing -- he loves to be cuddled and hates to be ignored. He enjoys opera -- especially Mozart's marriage of Figaro -- and will perk up when we change his diaper. The last (almost) three months have blurred by, and yet, it is difficult to imagine life without him.

I can't believe I ever doubted my capacity to love more than one baby.

The book project is taking off -- despite the fact that my writing partner and I have never actually met in real life, or even spoken on the phone, and for all I know she's a 40 year old creep logging time at the public library...

It's an adventure, a leap of faith... much like sharing my thoughts and feelings with all of you. And, in truth, all of you have made me feel like I can get away with writing something meaningful that others will want to read.

You have no one to blame but yourselves. So, thank you.

Martinis and Cupcakes

Before having kids, a rainy weekend made everything seem snug and cozy. We'd settle down, wrap ourselves in blankets, and listen to the tap tap taping rain on our roof. We'd drink hot chocolate, and read books or listen to music. But now, with a toddler who has recently learned the word "park," staying inside on a Saturday is like a jail sentence. Now, when the sky gets that pissed off look, and rips open in a stormy rage, we get antsy and uncomfortable, eager to stretch our legs and feel the sun on our skin.

Sometimes, when the rain calms down, we go for walks, the mist settling over us like gossamer.

But today, for whatever reason, B and I both woke up in foul moods, and the somber skies made us feel even more gloomy.

Thank goodness for my Fairy Godmother-in-Law who suggested we go out for a drink.

We piled into the car -- B and his mom in the front, me in the back crammed between M and Little Homie, and headed for a trendy restaurant in Culver City.

Instead of coffee, B, my Fairy Godmother-in-Law, and I each ordered something called a French Kiss Martini, a glamorous concoction of fresh pineapple juice, Grey Goose Vodka, and sweet ginger. It tastes even better than it sounds.

We sat at a table and sipped our drinks while M sipped her milk, and Little Homie sucked his thumb. Next to us, a group of elegantly dressed men and women talked about Important Things. One man in particular caught my eye -- he must have been an actor with his striking good looks, muscular build, and impressive height. ("Why don't you just go get it over with, and sleep with him already," B asks. "I would, but that would mean taking off my Spanx and letting him see my deflated baloon-belly, and we aren't at that point in our relationship." I reply.)

Anyway, about midway through my martini, the waiter approached the table next to us, and the handsome stranger said to his friends, "would anyone like some cupcakes?"

Warmed by the tangy ginger and fueled by the vodka, I turned around and said "Sure!" flashing him a winning smile.

It was then that I realized that I was probably drunk.

Yes, I'm a candidate for Mama of the Year.

But to his credit, when the waiter brought over a plate of chocolate cupcakes, the handsome stranger brought one over to me. And, to my credit, I split it with B and my Fairy Godmother-in-law.

As it turns out, I'm a lot nicer when I've had a drink.

MORE Excuses...

I'm up to something.

I met this wonderful woman in the blogosphere -- she's snarky, and smart, and stunning, and sexy, and after sniffing around eachother's blogs and facebook profiles we've become friends.

Ok, we're more than friends.


Much more.


We're become...




WRITING PARTNERS!!!

(For those of you heaving a sigh of disappointment as your lesbian love-scene fantasy goes up in flames, I'll throw you a bone: If she didn't live all the way in London, I'd do her.)

(And now I've stooped to the lowest common denominator.)

Anyway, if my blog posts have... um... dwindled... you now know why.

But, to make up for it, a book -- yes, a real live BOOK -- is in the works.

Recently, I happened upon a tin box of old pictures in my mom's old office.

Here is one of my Grampa Bernie in his bathing suit.



I think it's safe to say that he was quite a stud.

QUICK! CALL CPS!

Yes, I'm posting a nearly-nude picture of Little Homie. Since his boy parts are conveniently hidden, I think the FCC won't crack down too hard on me.