Goodbye Mimosa Brunches…

Today I went through my inbox and unsubscribed to all the alerts that had been building up–concerts, readings, gallery openings. I don’t want to alarm any of you preggos out there, but the reality is your social life is about to dissolve. Bye-bye date night, hello diapers.

It may not be as grave as all that, but my husband and I used to get up on a Saturday morning (late morning, mind you), and wander the city aimlessly. Maybe stop for a drink, a movie, or a museum. Now we get up at 6:30am on Saturdays and spend the day wiping boogers and floating from playground to playground, envying the twenty-somethings enjoying a nice mimosa brunch. Going out to eat–even during the day–has become tricky, as Trixie likes to scream randomly when the mood strikes. She is an adorable, blue-eyed n’ pudgy ticking time bomb.

When I was pregnant, a friend said to me, “You’re going to change SO much.” She is younger, and probably didn’t realize that this was the most horrible thing she could have uttered. One of my biggest fears was exactly that–that I would “change” and no longer have my own personality and interests. It’s true that the last book I read was Click Clack Moo, and the new Jonathan Franzen novel is collecting dust on my bookshelf, and that I am at least three crises behind in some of my friends lives. But, I have managed to stay me–with a little work. Instead of scouring the Bowery Ballroom website for awesome shows to see, I check out to see what new albums to download. I even manage to play them pretty loud after Trixie goes to bed. We rarely go to the movies anymore, but there’s always Netflix, and I still haven’t seen all the episodes of The Wire.

It’s a juggling act. So maybe I didn’t see the McQueen exhibit at the Met, and I probably won’t make it to Sleep No More, but I dress the same, my sense of humor is the same (still awesome), and I’ve got a cute baby girl who walks and giggles and says “mama.” All in all, I’d have to say it’s been a pretty fair trade.

As seen on the New York Family blog.

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Chomp Chomp

When Trixie bit me for the ten millionth time, I started to wonder: Is my daughter out to get me?

The culprit.


With seven chompers in her tiny mouth, her bite is not simply a “love nibble.” Quite the opposite, my legs are black and blue with her signature bite. And not just my legs–also my face, arms, boobs, collarbone and fingers. She’s a vicious beast. And our nanny told me the other day that Trixie knocked a kid over at the playground and tried to make off with his stroller! Whoa, what have I gotten myself into? Less than one year old and Trixie is about to go on trial (in my living room) for auto theft and assault charges.

She is still too young to really know what she’s doing, but when will she begin to realize that biting and hitting are wrong? So far, saying NO doesn’t work at all. I’ve even tried a few Time Outs which have proven to be excruciating for both of us–she cries, and I die inside watching her–so I won’t do much of that. Sometimes I try to act hurt when she bites me, crying and whatnot, but instead of guilt or remorse, Trixie just laughs. Basically, no matter what I do I get a giggle, which is great for my ego but dampens the effect of the educational process.

So what do I do? Yell, cry, withhold the boob, enforce Time Outs, or just ignore it?! Thankfully, these outbursts don’t happen all the timeusually just when I’m kind of distracted (emailing, cooking etc). Seems like the answer is simple, doesn’t it? Never get distracted, never get bitten. Case closed!

**Also posted on Born & Bred**

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How To Entertain Baby On A Long Flight

I can barely remember why I was so nervous about flying with a 3 month old baby. In fact, I’d give anything for the days when Trixie slept and fed through the flight. It literally couldn’t have been easier. But at 8 months, things have changed. Now, flying is practically an Olympic event. It takes stamina, hydration, agility–especially if you get the window seat. Trixie is a pretty good baby, but as she gets older she is getting more active and more curious. In other words, she is no longer content with sitting in my lap for four hours straight. Oh no, instead she wants to play with everything she’s not supposed to (cups full of ice, my row-mate’s hair), or cruise up and down the aisle. I was worried that the altitude might affect her ears, but so far that’s the least of my worriesI’m more concerned that she’ll kick the person next to me and break their nose! There’s not much advice I can give, but here are a few things that made flying a little easier for me the last time around:

1. Treat the SkyMall catalog as a toy. Tear out a page (preferably one of the boring ones advertising Harry Potter memorabelia or bunion massagers) and let your baby have at it. Apparently, nothing is more fun than crumpling up and shredding magazine pages.

2. If they’re standing, put your baby on the floor between your legs and let her play with the seat belt. That held her attention for a good 15 minutes until the Fasten Seat Belt light was reactivated.

3. Use the tray table as a desk. I like to sit Trixie in my lap and lay her toys out on the tray table, then I pretend it is her “office” and send her to “work” for a while. If you have toys with loops or hooks, you can fasten them to the tray table latch which helps keep things contained.

4. Use the bathroom as your personal VIP area. It may be a cramped, elbow-bruising way of changing diapers, but don’t forget there are mirrors in those teeny lavatories. What better way to pass the time than letting your vain little princes or princesses stare at themselves! Just keep an eye out for other bathroom-goers, you don’t want to make unnecessary enemies by holding up the queue.

5. Let ‘em be creepy. If staring down the guy in the seat behind you keeps your baby quiet for a little while longer, so be it. The guy might start to feel uncomfortable having a pudgy, wide-eyed baby ogling him from between the seats, but it’s a hell of a lot better than listening to that baby shriek at the top of her lungs.

**Also posted on Born and Bred**

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Screening and fundraiser this Saturday, May 7th @ Brooklyn Brainery in Carroll Gardens! Hope you can make it!

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My family has a small writing group, and my uncle Tad created our last assignment: Write A Ghazal. The Ghazal is an Arabic poem made up of several rhyming couplets, but the first and second line end with the same word, and each subsequent refrain ends with that first word again–if that didn’t make sense, it will, below. A traditional Ghazal is about love or pain, but then, what good poem isn’t?

I don’t pretend to be a poet, but here is my Ghazal. It’s called “Sigh” and is dedicated to my beautiful 5 month old daughter!

The weight of the world expelled in her sigh
Slow breath upon tiny chest, an innocent sigh.

Watch the sun set and her mood temper,
blinking eyes grow heavy, ever-resistant sigh.

See her father in those eyes/ fair hair,
mama’s presence mirrored in her sigh.

More long nights, fractured sleeping,
a glass of wine, a burdened sigh.

Nothing lasts forever, even tears,
years from now I’ll miss her sweet sigh.

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Dear Mr. Cockroach

I’m sorry I killed you. Well, not that sorry, because I wanted you dead, but it looked kind of painful as you writhed around in your post-Raid haze, so I’m sorry for that, from a humanitarian standpoint. I hope the toilet-flush took you to a better place, and you’ve been reincarnated as a butterfly or something lovely like that. Now, I have a quick question for you. Where did you come from? My cat found you in the bathroom, and now I can’t go in there without checking above, below, inside, and behind every surface. And then when you temporarily skidded away and hid in the radiator, I wondered if maybe you came from there? So, if you wouldn’t mind telling me how you got into my house, and more importantly, if you have any brothers or sisters, or children that I might find at a later date, PLEASE, be a dear and let me know. My sanity is dwindling.

Yours cordially,


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Catching up on Movies: Rachel Getting Married

Have you ever been to a wedding where you didn’t actually know the bride and groom? Maybe you were a plus one or the neighbor’s kid, added last minute to fill a seat? Well, that’s how I felt at the nuptials in Ted Demme’s Rachel Getting Married. I spent much of the film wondering, “Why am I here? I don’t even know these people.” And yet I still had to sit through the endless speeches at their rehearsal dinner, ceremony, and reception, and all the awkward family drama that littered each and every scene. Maybe I was supposed to think, “Wow, this couple’s diversity and love of eclectic traditions and music warms my heart.” But when I wasn’t rolling my eyes, I was looking at the clock.

The awkwardness I felt was very intentional. As a voyeuristic audience member I was nervous and uncomfortable when dysfunctional Kim (Anne Hathaway) came home from rehab for the wedding. Kim, who only thinks of herself and shits on everyone just to make sure she is in the spotlight at all times. Always self-deprecating, always holier-than-thou. From the get-go I couldn’t stand her, but was that Kim or was it Anne Hathaway, the bubbly teen from Princess Diaries all grown up? The fact that her character annoyed me so much means she must have done something right!

The family saga is complex and heartbreaking, and not one of them—from Tom Irwin’s impressive performance as the desperate father; Debra Winger as the detached mother; or the fed-up sister, excellently played by Rosemary DeWitt—knows how to deal with their problems, either individually or collectively. It is for that reason that each family scene is so painful. For years they’ve been bottling up their pain and misdirecting their emotional support. Sounds just like a real family!

As you are consistently slapped in the face by skeletons-in-the-closet, it becomes increasingly clear that this family’s problems are not going to be resolved within the span of a weekend wedding or a two hour movie. If anything, I left feeling drained, depressed, and dissatisfied. Characters may have come face-to-face with their problems and gotten a few gripes of their chests, but nothing was resolved. The elephant remained rigid in the room. Not just that—the elephant crashed the reception, caught the bouquet, and probably shagged the priest.

But I realize I may be in the minority. This movie did pretty well and earned Anne Hathaway an Oscar nomination—the performances were definitely the highlight. Overall, I felt that there wasn’t enough happiness to forgive the sadness, enough growth to make up for the selfishness, or enough cake to send me a slice through the ethers. Maybe Netflix can work on that last part.

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Last night I dreamed an infomercial. Over and over again, no matter what else was going on in my dream, I kept coming back to this infomercial. Actually, it was more of a celebrity interview, but there was an underlying psychology being peddled to viewers:

Tome Cruise, the spokesperson, sat at a long table brimming with boiled cabbage, legumes, lettuce—a bevy of healthy, low calorie items. When the camera panned in for a close-up, Tom began fervently cutting into the boiled cabbage with a knife and fork. “Mmm,” he said, widening his eyes with gusto, “this pork roast looks fantastic!” And taking a big bite, he moaned with delight.
Next, he speared a carrot stick and chomped into it, rolling his eyes toward the heavens.
“You see,” he explained, stretching his arms wide around the table, “I am a pretendetarian. I can eat the foods I love–fries, ice cream, pasta–and still maintain a sleek physique, just by pretending that my boiled beets are really beef wellington; my carrot sticks are greasy fries; and cabbage wedges are potato chips.”
Then, Tom Cruise wrapped his fist around a huge bowl of sprouts and drove them into his mouth with a grin. He chewed with euphoria, and I imagined the rich sinful taste of spaghetti carbonara instead of those thin, wispy seedlings.

Okay, so it was a very strange dream, but when I woke up I couldn’t stop thinking of Pretendetarianism. I’ve heard the term before, but it usually refers to people who say they’re vegetarians but actually aren’t (do they scarf burgers in the closet, or what?). But this type of Pretendetarian is more motivated by a fantasy, mind-over-matter, or “emperor’s new clothes” style of culinary indulgence.

Could be a great diet. I’ll give it a try and let you know.

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We’re getting the band back together!

Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t have a band. But I’m reinstating my blog, after a lengthy hiatus.

I’m going to ease in gently with a top five.

  1. The upside down question mark. ¿Por qué no utilizamos nosotros en inglés?
  2. HAUSU. Possibly one of the wackiest most creatively absurd films I’ve ever seen. Loved it.
  3. Tomfoolery. A word I don’t use nearly often enough.
  4. Our awesome new SodaStream. One of the best “green” decisions I’ve ever made, and super fun to use when it makes the whiny fizzing noise!
  5. Renewed appreciation for the things I take for granted. After living in rural South Africa for a year, and having read stories of the tragedy in Haiti, I remind myself to be grateful for the little things. When I want to take a shower, WATER comes out of the pipes–a luxury we did not often come upon in South Africa. We went as long as 6 days with no water, and it was tough on us, both mentally and physically. Electricity, too. That was another big one we went without on countless occasions. Needless to say, Andy and I got very good at UNO while living abroad. I don’t want to get sappy, but I do feel grateful for everything that I have. When we got back from South Africa to find out that our storage unit had been flooded and we’d lost nearly 1/2 of our possessions we realized it wasn’t so bad. We have our health, we have each other, we have half of our Ikea sofa, and a few other randoms that I probably feel much more appreciative of than I did before. Well, except the Kitchen Aid Mixer. I still don’t know what the hell I’m gong to do with that.
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Hey! I’ve set up a travel blog at

So far we’re having an amazing time.


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