Unselfish Thyself

Now that Baby Girl is six months old, I've finally moved beyond the "dear god, please just let me keep this tiny creature alive" stage to the "ohmigod, I am totally responsible for making this person a decent human being" stage.

I've been thinking a lot lately about this awesome responsibility. I am actually going to be Baby Girl's moral compass. If I'd ever thought that anyone would be looking to me for moral guidance, I might have done a few things differently in my misspent youth.

I've been carefully reviewing my list of things that I need to teach Baby Girl. I think we all want our children to learn to share, to be patient, to be kind, to help others.

But have I been practicing what I plan to preach? I thought about that as I sighed about the long line at the grocery store, mumbled under my breath about the people taking too long to cross the street, cursed the driver who cut in front of me to save himself 30 seconds...

Shit. I'm a terrible role model.

So I signed up to run the Honolulu Marathon.

Wait...wha?

Ok, I didn't just sign up to run the marathon. The whole family signed up to train as part of the National AIDS Marathon Program. That's right, even Baby Girl is working it in her jogging stroller to raise money for people living with HIV/AIDS.

Have I ever run a marathon before? Nope. Have I even run more than 3 miles at one time? Nope. Have I lost my mind? Possibly.

But did you know that more than one million Americans, and 40 million others around the world, are living with HIV -- the virus that causes AIDS? With more than 20 million deaths so far, AIDS is now the leading cause of death among all people aged 15 to 59 worldwide. That's pretty shocking.

Even though we'll be getting up at the butt crack of dawn, punishing our bodies for several hours and dealing with aches and pains, it will be worth it because we won't be doing this just for ourselves.

We'll be working together with our fellow runners to raise money for the fight to end AIDS.

Because Baby Girl deserves to grow up in a world that is free of HIV/AIDS. Because we want her to learn that helping others is the right thing to do. And because we can't imagine losing her and want to make sure that no parent ever has to experience that pain again.

So I've decided to take off the secret blogger veil in hopes of raising more money for AIDS Project Los Angeles. Now you can put a face to all those embarrassing stories...about my husband.

If you want to help us (and discover my top secret true identity ;-), visit here.

Bye Bye Boob Hits

I finally figured out why I'm getting hundreds and hundreds of hits every day from around the globe. Somehow Google has decided to feature a photo I used back in February when I was talking about breastfeeding. Yes, folks, when you search Google Images for "porn star boobs," the first site you get is my baby blog.

Is it sad to admit that I enjoyed seeing the huge hits on my counter for a few days?

But cooler heads prevailed and I decided that people looking for porn star boobs probably don't want to see photos of my baby and I don't think I want them to. So today, I removed the photo.

Adios Mexico! Ciao Italy! So long Sweden! Latvia, I barely knew ya!

I said babies, not boobies!

Ok, seriously, people, this blog is about babies and occasionally screenwriting. It's not about jugs, knockers, big bouncing big ones (kind of redundant, don't you think?) and other various boob-related terms that everyone in the past two days who has found my site was searching for.

And now, I have just perpetuated this problem by typing in a bunch of titty euphemisms. Great. I guess I can't talk about my humungous breastfeeding cans any more.

I'm not sure what has happened recently, but apparently, the entire world has decided they really, really need to see some breasts. I'll just tell you right up front - you ain't gonna want to see mine. Thanks to breastfeeding, my boobs are ready for a centerfold...in National Geographic.

So welcome Morocco, Yugoslavia, France, Germany and Spain, hope you enjoy reading about babies...

And just to torture you further...babaloos, baby pillows, bazooms, bikini stuffers, chi-chis, coconuts, dairies, female frontal flesh fins, fun bags, gazongas, golden globes, headlights, honkers, jubblies, jugs, knockers, lung warts, maguppies, mammaries, milk shakes, nunga-nungas, pink nosed puppies, rack, sweater bunnies, tatas, torso testicles, the twins, udders, warheads, yabbos, zeppelins...

How to Humiliate a Husband

First off, I should say that I am extremely lucky. My husband is a great guy - he cooks, he cleans and he is a fabulous father to Baby Girl. He brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. But that's not why I married him. Nope, I married him for his sense of humor...that, and the health insurance.

He's always willing to make an ass out of himself for me and that's one of his most endearing qualities. And it's one that I exploit constantly.

One of the things on our agenda last weekend, along with several BBQs and hanging with Dustin Hoffman, was a neighborhood block party. We were heading out when I remembered that there was a stroller decorating contest with prizes.

Now, there are two things that turn me into a overly giddy 12-year-old -- free food and potential prizes. Free food is so awesome! When I was acting, I would even get excited about doing extra work because of craft service. I would happily PA on friend's films just for the donuts and Rice Krispie treats.

And prizes! Don't even get me started on those. I don't care if it's a pack of gum - I am competing, dammit!

Obviously, there was no way I was going to the block party without decorating Baby Girl's stroller. The hubby and I quickly consulted our prop room in the garage (for sketch/improv comedy, get your minds out of the gutter!). We chose sports jerseys from Finland, Portugal and Jamaica, a referee shirt, a giant green sombrero, a beret, and a Mardi Gras mask and beads.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the World Cup!

Nothing like a little stereotyping to get you in the mood to celebrate America's independence.

With Baby Girl ready for primetime, we headed to the block party. As I placed our homemade brownies (we were assigned to bring dessert by virtue of the first letter of our last name) on the food table, I perused the other offerings.

Now, when I hear potluck, I think homemade casseroles, spinach dip, cookies, etc. As giddy as any type of free food makes me, I'm not sure I count a bag of Pirate's Booty as an appetizer or...hey, cupcakes! Mmmm.

Happy again, I take a look around to judge the competition. Only 3 or 4 other parents bothered to decorate their strollers. And all of them went with boring patriotic themes - red, white and blue and flags. Booo-rrring! We so have this in the bag with our creative interpretation.

And here's our big moment - they announce the competition is beginning...with a parade. Would everyone who decorated their stroller line up for the patriotic themed decorating contest?

Oh shit. Um, I guess I should have read the invite more closely. The hubby looks at me, ready to pack it in. I shake my head. No, you don't! You get out there and parade with your bad self. He hesitates for just a moment, then grabs a couple of plastic red/white/blue top hats, slaps the beret on his head and joins the parade.

I nearly pee myself laughing as he makes the rounds with the other strollers. After, we head back for consolation cupcakes. I overhear the judges conferring about the prize awarding and the head judge actually says, "I think we should give it to that...um...them... for...uh...creativity."

That's right, instead of one of those life lessons about following directions and paying attention, blah, blah, blah, we take third prize! I am beside myself with glee over our $15 gift certificate.

As you can see, Baby Girl is as thrilled as I am with the whole thing. I guess I've still got some time to instill that killer instinct. And, more importantly, the overwhelming love of free cupcakes.

July Fourth with the Rich and Famous

We spent our Fourth hanging out with friends on Zuma Beach, just south of Broad Beach - the famous Malibu enclave of Steven Spielberg, Robert Redford and Mel Gibson. We love surfing at Zuma and we'd heard that the afore-mentioned celebs (or some other rich resident, who knows?) had arranged for their very own fireworks display on an off-shore barge.

Sand, surf, dolphins and free fireworks? It doesn't get much better than this. And we had our very own celebrity sighting -- Dustin Hoffman -- shuffling his way through the aisles of the local grocery. While we ordered sandwiches, he paused to peruse the male products section. We speculated wildly on his potential purchase - Shaving cream? Just For Men? Condoms? I made the hubby do the recon mission to see what he was buying. Turns out Dustin Hoffman uses Brylcream.

Now I realize we're pretty lame for actually following a celebrity through a grocery store to monitor his purchases but, hey, Defamer needs a full report.

Even though I've lived in Southern California for nearly my whole life, it's always jarring to me to see a celebrity doing something so mundane. Yes, I realize that there's columns devoted to "Stars - They're just like us!" but those are still professional pictures in glossy magazines. It's somehow different to see Dustin Hoffman in person pushing a grocery cart and checking out the $20 special on BBQ sets.

Anyway, the Brylcream brought back memories of my dad, who passed away in 1992. When we were little, he used to let us play barbershop with him. By this point, my dad was already pretty bald - he was 45 when I was born. But he was game. We'd brush his hair, lather on the Brylcream and charge him a quarter. I still remember that Brylcream smell.

Yep, my dad and Dustin Hoffman, they're exactly alike. Stars -- they're just like us!

Anyway, throughout the day - we surfed a little, we ate crappy hot dogs from the snack bar while Baby Girl ate sand, we hung out with our fabulous friends that we don't see enough of, the Zuma dolphins made their appearance, and we saw an amazing fireworks display.



All in all, our Fourth was pretty darn awesome and actually made me appreciate living in L.A. for a change. And, somewhere, my dad was watching the whole thing and smelling like Brylcream.

*Oh, and it took me a day and a half to get these photos to upload. Sheesh!