That's Not My Name

Zoe was born via a scheduled c-section at 39 weeks. I was huge and miserable and scaring my doctor with my elevated blood pressure. If I had gone into labor with my BP as high as it had been, there is no way they would let me attempt the VBAC that I longed for. That Halloween night, Jason dressed up as a OB (a C-Section OB, natch, in a lab coat over golf clothes) and on the next day, November 1st, our little Zoe entered the world screaming her head off and weighing in at 4lbs 15.5 oz...and she continued to scream for the next 4-5 months.

In a PPD haze, trying to laugh and not just sob, I used to joke to my 3 1/2 year old Lucas that Zoe cried all the time because she had "pickles in her pants." Which ended up in a song that sounded a lot like "Mary Had a Little Lamb," which lead to Zoe's nickname of "Pickles" or the "Pickle Princess."

 Something to note about Zoe - she's pretty willful. She does things when and how she wants to do them. Yes, life is going to be VERY hard for us in about 10 years. We know this. She didn't walk until 18 months, but when she did she got up and walked across the house. It's not that she couldn't do it, it was just that she didn't really see the need before then. When she started talking she quickly started calling people what SHE thought they should be called. Her nanny was not Michele, but "Honey" and Lucas quickly became "Ugga." The best part is that she knew everyone's real names. Ask her who Ugga was and she would simply reply "My brother, Lucas." Much to Lucas' dismay, the nickname Ugga stuck. It wasn't until he started playing rugby a few months ago that he embraced his nickname and even expanded on it, liking to be called "Ugga the Rugga."

Even as Zoe insists on calling people by her appointed nicknames, she never has liked hers. Often times she will respond with an angry "I'm not a pickle, I'm a Zoe!" Which, because I'm SO that mother, makes me want to call her "Pickle" 20 times over. The other night I was tucking her into bed, and as I turned on her half-moon night light and turned off the big light, I whispered "Good Night my Pickle..." to which my little sweet baby girl princess responded back with:

"GET IT STRAIGHT! I'm NOT a pickle!"

I gotsta' keep on moving...

So yes, the shoemakers children have no shoes. 

In the past two months, I've written more blog posts than in the past year. But as you see, none of them for this site. A few of the posts I've written have even been front and center on major industry web sites, but of course, those are the ones that I can't really take credit - only a paycheck - for. Pretty much I'm a writing machine these days... alas, none of them are posted here.. on my little shoeless baby blog.

You never write! You never visit! When did my blog turn into a Jewish mother?

But yes, it's true. I don't. 

This working from home with kids running around this is really way more difficult that it looks. It's almost near impossible to write coherent sentences with the theme song from the latest Barbie movie blasting in the background. Have you ever tried to answer emails while dishing out juice boxes and snacks every 10 minutes? Many days I find it even impossible to form multiple sentences that flow together. My ADD becomes very apparent when I'm talking to someone and in the process of telling them a story, I interrupt myself to tell them something else that I just thought of and didn't want to forget to tell them. 

But yes. The Blog. No Shoes. Jewish Mother. Blah.

So yea. 

How've you been?

The "Swanky LA Party" that really wasn't

As many of you know, my "real job" is in PR and Marketing. And while this blog thing seems to eat up just as many hours as a full-time job, let's be honest, it don't make squat. But I do it for a few personal reasons and the occasional "perks." Last week was one of those particularly perk-filled weeks - a private icing demo with the cupcake queen of the world, lunch at a DELISH Mexican restaurant in Hillcrest and a private preview of the new Souplantation Express that is now open and is just minutes from my house. I pretty much ate my way through the week. Then late Thursday, Jason gets an email from a PR agency in LA that represents Nivea For Men, inviting him to a "super exclusive pre-Golden Globe party at a famous jewelers Beverly Hills private estate!"

Being the celeb-u-whore that I am, I *almost* screamed with excitement. ME?! At a PRE-GOLDEN GLOBE PARTY IN BEVERLY HILLS?!

With thoughts of the palatial estates of Lisa and Adrienne of RHOBH, I envisioned this fabulous LA cocktail party. I pictured myself in a fabulous dress and platform Louboutin's casually laughing with someone who turned out to be a high powered executive at Sony pictures who just happened to be looking for a work-from-home social media consultant. And yes, in the fantasy I was 20lbs lighter and had  the after-glow of a vacation in Cabo. 

Alas, what I really am is 100% naive. 

I GREW UP IN LA, I really should have known better. But! In my defense, in the past 10 years I've been to some super amazing corporate parties with some amazing people in attendance. Just ask me about the time I ate fried chicken with Tone Loc and Vanilla Ice at the Rainbow Room on Sunset. Still...

Sigh. I need an iPhone 4 with a flash something FIERCE.

The party was more of a gigantic line. We waited in line to get in, we waited in line for a drink, we waited in line for a few bites of food, then we waited in line for another drink before waiting in line at the valet to leave. The party, which was advertised as "old school Rat Pack Hollywood glamour" with a "cocktail/dress-to-impress" dress code, was full of women that looked they were trying to be porn stars or men that looked like they were trying to be P. Diddy (or is he Ditty Dirty Money now?). I kinda got the feeling this was going to be the case: on the drive up to LA I searched the party's Twitter hash-tag and checked out the profiles of the 4 other people tweeting about it. Think of all those house-party scenes you see on Entourage, then make all the people in attendance about 30% less attractive and 50% less interesting.

But the thing that irked the PR girl in me most is that flat-out misrepresentation of the event from the PR company. The "private estate" turns out to be a house, owned by some jewelry company, that is used strictly as an event rental. The gift bag that the invite claimed to be "worth $200" was a few samples of Nivea for men products. And the best misrepresentation of the night: the announcement of the attendance of James Franco - but I'll let Jason tell you all about that one. 

The whole night I couldn't help but think how out of place I felt. I don't think we exactly looked out of place (quite the opposite, I was actually complimented on my shoes a few times!), but we really felt it. Then again, the entire gathering was enveloped in an awkward feeling. It seemed to be crammed full of people, none of them really wanting to be there, but feeling like they had to be seen there JUST IN CASE someone else was there. Maybe it's the LA thing? Or maybe it was just a horribly executed event. But what I do know: our little VIP party for the opening of Sprinkles in La Jolla last week was about 50 times cooler.