Crazy Virgo

Mrs. Mom

It feels like it's been years since I blogged, when in reality it's been 5 months. So much has happened in five months that I should publish a book, not a blog. Well, let me re-phrase that. Only about 6 people would read the book, but what I've experienced feels like it's novel-worthy. You're waiting for me to write that I was kidnapped, held for ransom and escaped, right? HA! hardly. I had a baby, remember? Way more life altering than escaping kidnappers.

It happened pretty much like I planned it (see previous post), only BabyVirgo arrived at lunchtime, not cocktail hour. I'm proud to say I had a drug-free birth - no epidural. It was THE hardest, most wonderful thing I've ever done. Gentleman Husband was the greatest team player/support person in the world. He did everything just as a husband should. The first three months are total shit. Lots of crying - by baby and parents - diaper blowouts, confusion - by baby and parents -saying "I'm sorry" - to each other and to baby. But, you do it, and you figure it out, and somehow this teeny little being starts to grow and recognize you and eventually you get to 4 months and breath a sigh of relief. And now, I'm actually enjoying the ups and downs of little BabyVirgo on a daily basis.

I decided not to go back to work, but to freelance instead. I find that this decision has its good and bad points. On the good side, I get to watch my baby grow up everyday. I get to feed her. Play with her. Never miss a moment of her cuteness. I could go on, obviously. On the bad side, I sometimes forget that I'm a stylish, 30-something Mrs., not just a Mom. I have to remind myself to wash my hair instead of conveniently throwing it into a ponytail. I have to remind myself to get out of the house and make plans to socialize, otherwise I wear sloppy outfits every day. I have to remind myself that I own heels. I have to remind myself I have hobbies that don't include laying on my tummy, bouncing a baby on my knee, or pushing a stroller. Of course, the good will always outweigh the bad. Of course. But, I need to find balance in my life. 

There is nothing better than the site of BabyVirgo's smile through the bars of her crib in the morning when I go to her. This kind of exhilaration used to only come with the seasonal issue of Vogue. Watching her attempt to eat baby food is so exciting, you'd think I just won tickets to go see Radiohead. You get the idea. I've left Social Virgo behind for Mama Virgo. At some point they have to meet though, right?

We'll see. In the meantime, this is NOT a mommy blog. I hope to keep that promise to you, reader.

Birth Plan

Oh yes, Gentleman Husband and I have one. We talk to little BabyVirgo and let her know our plan, so she can adhere to it when it's go time.

It goes a little something like this:

Sept 4th -

7:30 a.m. Mild contractions start.

8:00 a.m. Contractions continue for a few hours, while we go through all the relaxation exercise we perfected in our birthing class.

12:00 p.m. Contractions are 5 minutes apart. Head to the hospital.

1:00 p.m. Enjoy lovely jacuzzi bathtub and wonderful view of the Flatirons while breathing through contractions,which are getting more intense, with Gentleman Husband rubbing my back and telling me how great I'm doing.

3:00 p.m. Pushing starts.

4:00 Baby Virgo is born. Celebration and tears ensue.

5:00 p.m. We all enjoy BabyVirgo's first happy hour as a part of our family.

Nice and tidy. Seems like a wonderful way to enter the world to me. I know babies aren't excited to leave the confines of a nice, warm, dark womb, so giving her a party when she arrives is the least I can do. Breastmilk and beers all around.

So, basically, a work-day full of labor and viola! She arrives. If she's anything like me, she likes schedules and order, so knowing what's going to happen before it happens is probably putting her at ease. She's probably hanging out, enjoying the last few days in the womb, like I enjoy the last few days of vacation. Relaxing, stretching, getting some good napping done, reading up on current events, knowing what the fall runway colors are, listening to good music.

One must have a plan, no matter how ridiculous it may seem. Yes, I'm ready for the unexpected, but again, she's a virgo, and we don't really do unexpected.

Girlcrush, part 75

I've had plenty of girlcrushes starting back in my youth with Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. Obvious dreams of hot pink sweatshirts, teased hair, my own perfume. I used them as my first fashion inspirations. I even tried to write an entire musical using TIffany's first album, thinking that maybe we'd meet when I completed the script and took it to Broadway. Then, matured to  Carly Simon, after seeing "Working Girl." A passionate, emotional voice echoing through the whole world calling out to women everywhere. All that crazy long feathered hair blowing in the wind on the back of the Staten Island Ferry singing her her heart out. In my teen years it was all Tori Amos. I died my hair red on my 16th birthday and knew the words to every song she sang, wrote them on the covers of my notebooks, thought about taking up piano, and most certainly called myself a Toriphile or some ridiculous stalker name. I probably dabbled in some Ani DiFranco in college. Who didn't?

Most recently it's been Neko Case. Rachel Maddow. Bjork. Well now I have a new one.
 Allison Mosshart. Half of "The Kills". Half of "The Dead Weather." 

 

Hello rock and roll star. Joan Jett and Pat Benatar incarnate, but with better hair. I tried my best to keep this crush at a minimum, because let's face it. She's the epitome of Hipsterdom. Every skinny jean wearing muther fucker out there loves her. My GAP-wearing, clean-laced, bourgeoisie ass is probably on her KILL LIST. Well, clearly, I'm attracted to ladies that are a total mess. My new GF Allison is a drinking, smoking, erratic, dramatic, hot rock-n-roll mess with a voice that punches you in the face. This is exactly everything that I am not. Which, I presume is what makes her so crushable. 

Evidence:

Treat Me Like Your Mother Video

 

In the past, I suppose I crushed on Bjork so much because girl dresses like a three year-old that insists on doing her own hair and wearing rain boots, a tutu, a cowgirl shirt and a stocking cap. She let's her insides dictate her wardrobe, which usually equates to confusion and and an emotional clusterfuck. A mess.

 

And a mess is something I can never pull-off. I like showering and brushing my hair. I don't smoke. I don't drink whiskey. I can't stand on stage, or in front of a camera, or straddle a piano seat bench and serenade a crowd with my heart leaping out of my throat in song. SO, I have a type. I crush on girls that are a little bit what I wish I was and shall never be. Maybe for my 40th birthday (yes, already planning it) I'll invite them all, we'll do several lines, drink vodka out of the bottle, wear bras and leather pants, rent out a theater, invite everyone I know, perform in my all girlcrush band and go on a 72-hour bender. But probably it will be a dinner party with fresh squeezed cocktails, farm-fresh food, discussion about babies, independent film, and fashion. Alas.... I'd bore my crushes to tears.

So, I'll continue to love them from afar, dress like them in my head, have secret conversations with them while I'm supposed to be working. Don't worry, I'm not going all Tyler Durtan on you.

The Learning Curve

I'm really pregnant these days. Large round protrusion on the front of my abdomen that you can see coming before the rest of me ever appears, pregnant. With each new month comes more learning about being pregnant. Aside from the expected learnings - breastfeeding, sleeping patterns, holding, swaddling - there have been a few surprising things I've learned.

1. People that didn't ever talk to me before I was pregnant now want to have conversations about forthcoming baby and how the pregnancy has been. Case in point - our neighbors, very nice people whom we often smile at, are now all up in our business about this forthcoming child. Because they are in their 40s and have two kids, apparently we had nothing in common before, outside of sharing a street. Now, oh yes. We're both reproducing, and we should base a friendship on that. Really? I don't want to just talk about my kid and how her feeding is going, and whether she's sleeping all night. I've got a lot more to give in a conversation than that.

2. Total strangers want to know the due date of the baby. They also want to know where we are delivering. Why? Are they going to be appearing at the hospital on that date to check and see if I've had the baby? Are they sending cards? Gifts? What is to be gained by their knowing my due date? 

3.Everyone loves a pregnant lady. This I suspected, but really in these last months I've noticed cars actually stop for me at the Whole Foods cross walk, and when I wave to thank them, they're smiling and waving back instead of sneering and motioning to hurrythefuckup. A cop didn't give me a ticket for driving illegally in the HOV lane. Random people congratulate me. It's nice.

Just proving that you never stop learning, this pregnancy is as you might expect, no exception. I know every day will be a learning experience when babyVirgo gets here, but I've gotta tell you, general public, don't TELL ME how to raise my child (finger waving in the air).I'll learn that one all on my own.

I'm in Love

Who is this woman, and where has she been all my life. Thanks for Little Pink D for posting her lastest blog.

behold, 

Dear Coke Talk.

You know the best part of this? Not the snarky answers. The impeccable wit. The right-on-the-money responses. It's that I totally imagine a drunk Dolly Parton really answering these questions. As you know, this blog is not an aggregator of other cool stuff, but I'm making an exception this time to pimp Coke Talk. I love her.

GOOP - See??? I actually do work.

Goop friends - I know a lot about a lot. Being beautiful and famous just gives me great perspective on life in general. And once in a while, I like to allow you to ask me things so that I can share with you, common person. Because I know you don't have the clairvoyance that I do to answer all life's hard questions like what's the best moisturizer to use, where to stay in the French Riviera, and where to go in LA when you want to just pig out on michelen-star Italian food. I imagine these things must have been plaguing at your soul, and poor you, no one to ask. Well, shhhhhhh Gwenyth, you're once a week e-newsletter celebrity pal is here. After carefully reading the answers to these questions I get asked all the time, you'll feel better. 

Although, I can't believe so many people ask if it's really me writing all the newsletters every week and recommending restaurants and what to read, or wear. Uh,  yes, people it's me. I really labor over those 2-3 lines that introduce the subject matter of each weeks newsletter. It takes time to think of what celebrity to consult. Then it takes time to yell at my assistant to find email addresses. And, then I have to go meet them for cocktails. That's a reallly long day, and I do it all myself. Which is exactly why I need a month off this pretend job to go relax in the Hamptons.

Loves, g

 

P.S. Yes, I'm hitting the Hampton's (Where I live next door to Aerin Lauder of Estee Lauder, and Martha Stewart) with Jay-z, Beyo, Jessica & Jerry Seinfeld (we jews.....,), so, sorry you can't come or afford to even drive through my neighborhood. buuuut, that's where i'll be for the next month. Byyyyyye

This week's actual GOOP.

 

Wiggle It, just a little bit

The band, 2 in a Room, sang, "! wanna see you wiggle it, just a little bit." 

Though I'm not on a beach, and no one has been video taping me, that I know of.... that's just what I've been doing. On all fours. Every night. Me, in what is commonly referred to as "the dog position" wagging my hindquarters back and forth in slow motion. Wiggle it.... Then, moving forward and backward, over and over. Just a little bit.... And finally, circling my hips and hiney in a figure eight, like I'm doing a hula, on all fours. As it groooves.... Is this some sort of kinky pregnancy dance, you ask? Oh no, just the opposite. This could not be less of a mating call. This tribal looking exercise is supposed to keep little virgo-to-be in the position for the perfect birth. Wagging it, wiggling it, and working it all around so that I can possibly have a wonderful, natural birth free of drugs. This erotic exercise came highly recommended courtesy of the team of experts (i.e. my entourage) that will be leading me and Gentleman Husband through the natural birth of our first blessed child.

Now, I know most of the midwives and my doula have children, but did they forget how incredibly vulnerable and awkward they felt every minute of the day. WITHOUT the wagging and wiggling? Me thinks not. Not only must I deal with random people touching my belly (what is it with that?) and the stares and constant curiosity that pregnant women attract, but now I must wiggle it, just a little bit in front of Gentleman Husband without the hope of any hanky panky, b/c let's face it.... the bulge hanging down in the front might be beautiful, but it's not so sexy. No one wants to see me "wiggle it." I can say with some certainty that 2 In a Room will never ask me to be in their beachfront, bikini-clad video. Now, National Geographic, maybe....

GOOP - GO to San Francisco where there are beautiful supermodels

Hi Goop dahlings - It's really hard being super rich and beautiful. So, sometimes I have to find other rich beautiful women to hang out with for normalcy. If you're beautiful, rich and looking to spend some time in San Francisco (though, if you possess those qualities, I probably already know you), I've compiled a list of places to eat/shop so that you will be with other beautiful, rich people who like to stare at food and pretend their eating it, and shop at stores that only carry a size 2. Recently, I felt the urge to seek out my gorgeous friends because I took a minute to survey who I was hanging out with in London - and let's face it, those Brits aren't exactly stunning - and realized that even though my dear friend, Stella, is an amazing designer, she's kind of Hagsville. She's never been asked to be in an ad campaign for a major cosmetics line, and isn't that how one truly defines beauty? She's more likely to be in one of those vulgar, ugly-celebrity ads that Louis Vuitton is doing... Hello, Annie Lebovitz?! Not attractive. So, I called up my dear friends, the Turlington sisters, and asked where all the beautiful ladies like us were hanging out, and wouldn't you know it, there was a beautiful people's convention in San Francisco, their hometown. Lucky me! So, I conveniently forgot I had children and a husband and rounded up my team and bought out first-class  on Virgin airlines (never mind what I said a few weeks ago about carbon footprints) and flew to SF and had the most incredible time basking in my own beautiful-ness. Truly, nothing makes you feel better than spending time with supermodels and knowing that you're absolutely beautiful enough to be seen with them because normal people are going to stop and stare at you both equally. It just fills the soul. 

Stay pretty Goopers (let's face it, you're never going to be beautiful like me, or you'd be writing this email.),

G

This weeks real GOOP.

Thank You, babyVirgo.

Things I'm pretty sure are happening just because I'm pregnant:

 Leg hair isn't growing. I don't have to shave for weeks at a time. I constantly check to see what's going on, but no hair hath sprouted. I've always had light-colored leg hair (TMI?), but like normal women, usually have to shave at least once a week. Not anymore. I'd like to think it's just something the baby does to take the ease off, since there are so many other things that are painful about being pregnant. Leaning over my protruding stomach trying to see my legs, then finding a position that keeps my balance long enough to run a blade up my leg, ya that's not so easy when pregnant. Thanks BabyVirgo.

Shrunken Eye-lashes. I've never had long, luscious lashes. They're pretty standard, several centimeter, brown/black lashes. I can usually fake a nice, flirtatious lash with the help of DiorShow mascara (note the free plug, send me some free product, Dior!) and a eyelash curler. Now, oh no. I need a magnifying glass to find them. Apparently, babyVirgo is going have extraordinarily long, beautiful lashes that she'll bat at me and Gentleman Husband, because she's stolen mine. They are literally shrinking into their follicles. Even my waxer, who also colors my brows and lashes, wondered "where did those things go? I swear they were here last time I did this." No thanks BabyVirgo.

Memory, gone. (it took me five passes at the post to remember to list "memory".) I was skeptical whether "baby brain" actually existed. I thought it was just an excuse (rightly so) that exhausted pregnant moms used to not deal with banal situations, and was actually quite excited to use it myself. Until I realized it was true. I've written emails, then had to check seconds after I send them to see what I just wrote. I misplace things all the time - I'm talking putting scissors back in the refrigerator type of misplacing. I used to be a little flighty before getting knocked up, but this sprout has clearly exacerbated this problem. It's just annoying, BabyVirgo.

Ex-boyfriends dreams. Sure, we all have them from time to time. They're fun. They keep nighttime interesting, and pass at least 2-3 hours during work deconstructing their meaning, and another 2-3 consulting girlfriends for meaning. Now, they're coming in rapid succession. Some are of no substance - my 8th grade boyfriend is working at the drive-thru of a Good Times Burger. Meaning: I've been craving/eating Bambino burgers and it's a good thing I didn't end up with that guy. He had no motivation in life. But, some are grocery-store-novel-summer-romance steamy forcing me to wake up and apologize to my completely unsuspecting, sleepy-eyed Gentleman Husband first thing in the morning. What could be the positive interpretation to this? Why is my high school boyfriend asking me to follow him into a barn in the English countryside? Why is Bryan Greenberg, the adorable kid from "How to Make it in America" on HBO, at my apartment in San Francisco? (ok ok, nice to have celebrity guest stars in my dreams) At the most vulnerable time in my life, totally in love with Gentleman Husband, anxiously expecting our first child, I'm having adulterous dreams. There's only one culprit: hormones at levels that would scare most Republicans. Perfect timing. Thanks BabyV.

I've started drinking herbal tea. I spent five good years in Seattle getting nicely addicted to caffeine. I thought it impossible to speak in the morning without the aid of a double Americano. I took joy in laughing in the faces of people who were "trying to break the caffeine habit." Quitters. Oh, but now, with baby on board, I'm daintily sipping my words out of a floral teacup holding a bag of African Orange Roobis Herbal Tea. Even though I'm physically upright and my eyes are slit open, I'm not awake and coherent until 10 a.m. Caffeine, how I miss our codependent relationship. I know there are conflicting camps on whether caffeine affects the baby in the second and third trimester, and I could probably sneak a sip here and there, but I've decided to give her a fighting chance at not entering the world with one hand searching for a triple non-fat latte. So, it's decaf, herbal tea for me. And to think, I'm a confessed Anglophile. I should be coveting the fact that I have a reason to drink tea and not look like a poseur. No thanks, BabyV.

There are numerous reasons I should rub my belly with affection every day. There are an equal number of reasons I want to give it a perturbed, little flick. In twelve years I'll be sure to personally thank babyVirgo for the amazing tour de force of emotions, new habits and horomones she's led me through.

Goop - see what's inside a cookbook!!!

Goopinas - Hi It's Gwenyth, self-confessed food-a-holic foodie. If you know anything about me, you know I love talking about cooking and eating. It's one of my most favorite hobbies. In the summer especially, I just love talking about recipes and how divine they must taste. I feel talking about cooking is a way to relate to the "normal" people who probably eat. I curl up in my Frette 1000-thread count sheets, pretend I'm sublimely happy and pour over many cook books dreaming of eating. Mixed berry tarts, coucous with grilled vegetables and fresh herbs, seared fish with lemon/mint aioli. Talk dirty to me!! Sometimes I make Chris (my husband, the rockstar who has disappeared off the face of the earth) whisper ingredient lists into my ear, when we're, you know...  I've even gone so far as to switch my regular girls book club (where we've been reading Deepak's latest bible) to focus more on cook books. Stella, Tracey, and my new BFF Kate Hudson (we're both Jewish ish and have blond hair, so I thought we should be friends) all stare at pictures, drink water with lemon and talk about what it might be like to eat all the delicious food we order our kitchen staff to make for us. It's such a great way to spend a summer afternoon. Anyway, enough about me. Do you love how I talk about canning food (why do they call it that, when it's in jars? So confusing). HA! I've included cookbook reviews from all my favesies British chefs. They're they only civil chefs around, with the exception of Brooklyn-based cooks, b/c my agent told me Brooklyn is so hot, still. I guess I'd better go there. I didn't include anything from Mario, even though we did Spain together, becuase he's fat. 

Well that about sums it up. I'm about to go read Apple and Moses a cookbook for kids. They really need to get into the habit of visualizing eating instead of really doing it. So much healthier and way more organic.

Byeeeeee.

This week's Goop.