party girls

Time to dig through the CDs. It's an MJ kind of day. Mahalia Jackson, that is. Some of y'all know what I'm talking about. It's rainy here. There's a little melancholy following me around. It's time for a boost in spirit.

Speaking of a boost, I had Big Fun, capital B, capital F, on Friday night. Last Wednesday was Natalie's birthday, her 41st. I have to say, there's so much less pressure on 41 than on 40. I say this as one who's experienced both birthdays, and as one who has racked her brain trying to think of the ultimate of ultimate ways to celebrate friends turning 40, then the next year found much more ease, and maybe even fun, in celebrating 41. Not that our 40ths weren't fab-o-lous -- they were. It's just that 41 brought a lovely dose of mellow along with. (42, can you wait a little bit? What is this speed of light toward 80?)

Natalie with her "Many Faces of Natalie" Cake, brought to us by Ellen. Best cake ever!

I love birthdays, I do, and when I really get to share in a friend's birthday, I co-opt it. (One year, Mister Stevens and I traded birthdays. It was such silly good times I can't even tell you.) Natalie and I went out to lunch and to Loehmann's for birthday bargains. (She even lets me share her birthday discount coupon. See? How could I not think it's my day too?) Then we had a birthday snack at everyone's new fav yogurt (or, whatever it really is) place, Pinkberry. We saved the party for Friday night. Natalie invited our friends, and her mom, to The Urban Craft Center in Santa Monica. Our friends are crafty ladies and we get together for Stitch 'n Bitch -- okay, I haven't been in a while, gotta work on that -- every Thursday, so we wanted to do something other than meet, eat pizza, drink booze, and knit. In a stroke of genius, Natalie scheduled us for a needle felting class. I had never needle felted and kept thinking it was something it wasn't, then something else. It was spectacular fun, is what it was. I mean, Nintendo, Wii, computers, DDR, HD, iPhones -- whatev! Try poking things with tiny needles. Crazy!

Raw material.

Natalie had some needle felting experience, but no one else did. When we sat down and saw what we'd be working with, we were like, Wha? Carolyn and Janie, our fearless instructors, were great. They told us the basics, the nature of the material we'd be using, and how not to hurt ourselves (the needles used in needle felting are sharp like a mofo). The jewel of the night was when Carolyn observed us all and said, "If you're going to look away from your project, you might want to stop poking." I'll say.

The start of something sweet.

Et voila! A cupcake. Or a mushroom with a cherry on top. Made by me.

We all started off by making the same project -- cupcakes. This gave us the hang of things. Once our cupcakes were done, we were set free, with supervision, to make whatever we wanted. The UCC has lots of craft books lying around for inspiration. I had noticed some adorable penguins while flipping through a Japanese needle felting book. I figured I could produce something close to a penguin, so I made Pee Vee. (He kind of looks like an owl, too. One member of our group, Malina, even said he looks like her cats. Ouch! He's a penguin!) When I got home from the party, I couldn't stop myself from knitting him a scarf. I am not much for stuffed animals or toys, but something's come over me with this whole idea of a penguin being born from a hunk of wool, and in less than an hour.

Here's Pee Vee, pre scarf, with his pal, Maryjo's chick.

I loved two things best: Celebrating Natalie, who is completely wonderful, fun, talented, generous, smart, and foxy (everyone should know her!); and watching all the cute and crazy things -- first the cupcakes, then animals, an iPod cozy, Ellen even made a fried egg in anticipation of Mardi Gras -- emerge, spontaneously, from balls of wool.

Here are more pics, courtesy of Ellen (so are the 2 of me, above):

Lookit these masterful creations! Natalie's skunk of love. Darcy's iPod cozy (until I steal it).

Clockwise from back row left: Ellen, Maryjo, Sher (Nat's mom), me, Lori (I wish you could see her baby harp seal up close; it's wearing a beret and holding a paintbrush and palette!), Nat, Darcy. Malina had to leave early, but she made a cute cupcake.

Can't go without saying, if you're in LA and looking for a good time, check out The Urban Craft Center. It is a place of unparalleled crafty goodness.

*h*Ap*Py bI*R*th*Da*Y* again, dear Natalie. :)

all the sweetness in the world

(Click for big baby love.)

I am completely freaking over this child's cuteness. And tripping out over how fast she's growing. Remember Gracie Bea in February? That was only last May, and look at her now. Just look at her. She knows exactly what she's doing. How do these things happen?

Here, she fiercely models her Frida Pinafore.

I have to say it is so lovely of D, Gracie's mom, and so like her, to send along photos of the baby wearing the things I make. Not to be a bee-atch, but I find that not many people do that. It's too bad, because it really makes you feel connected to the person you're making things for. It really makes you feel the love.

buddy. eat. camera.

I got nuttin' today. I am fabulously rowing toward neither knitting nor words. So how about some gratuitous baby photography?

This is The Buddy. He's one of my all-time favorite subjects. I took these almost two years ago, when I used to babysit for his dad, one of Schmin's best friends. I haven't seen him since he was about this little. In a way, I don't want to. Not only was he adorable, but he was also one of the most fun babies I've ever met. He loved to laugh and play. This kid had a real sense of humor. What if life has turned him into a bitter toddler?

Probably it hasn't.

eye candy friday -- gracie bea in february

Last week I wasn't much in the mood for eye or any other kind of candy and I know I have a responsibility to make up for that. Luckily, I've got the mother of all eye candy in my bag of tricks.

Feast on this:

Oh my god! It's Gracie Bea! And she's wearing her February Baby Sweater!

Seriously, who can stand it? This baby is utterly adorable and, would you believe, at only 7 months, full of personality? I was soooo happy to meet her. I wanted to steal her but my friend Sandra, who drove me from NYC to the outskirts to see Gracie and her mom, would not let her go. Every time Gracie whimpered, Sandra would bulldoze me and Deatra (the child's mother, for cryin' out loud!) to snatch her up. It was all good, though, because I'll be getting more time in ASAP. Plus, I have to admit, the two of them did have chemistry.

I kept asking D where she got such a perfect little person. You know somebody for years and then, all of a sudden, you see her in a completely different light when she becomes a mother. I loved seeing my dear, dear friend living her dream of motherhood. She's so good at it. I knew she would be, but it was nonetheless a beautiful wonder to behold.

Oh, something funny. The second you pull out a camera, Gracie gets ready. I'm told it's because her dad stalks her like a paparazzo. She wasn't the least bit fussy about posing in the sweater. She did, however, christen it with YoBaby and pureed pears. This made me very happy. When it happened, I thought, It's truly hers, and she can live in it. I love that.

Mother of God. Look at those feet.

The blue February Sweater is hanging out over in my new Etsy shop, hoping to find a home.

on february

Poor February. Popular only because there's less of you than other months.

My February has been pretty busy. People. Projects. The book proposal (mostly, What the hell am I going to write about for a whole book? And, Now that I'm working on happiness, is it still okay to portray my miserable childhood?) . To be honest, my vision of the days behind me is a tad blurry, but this day is a standout, so I've chosen it for Snap a Dozen Days:

Schmin in love.

A day of firsts it was. The first day I've gone out with Schmin as a foursome, me, him, Bubs, and now Naiomi, his girlfriend. As we sat in The Whisper Lounge at The Grove, drinking pear martinis at Schmin and Naiomi's insistence and laughing, the two of them exchanged quick kisses and lots of I love yous.

Naiomi is an extraordinary girl, brash and brave and underneath it all, quite lovely (I told her so). She is not much like the shy lost lamb I was at 23 (even though our birthdays are three days apart and we share the same zodiac sign). I had to navigate the world, for myself and a little person for whom I was responsible, and so I did, but it was painful. I was not, like Naiomi, a natural at it.

Watching the two of them, young, in love, and unencumbered, I felt happy, but old and lost too. When did I become the matriarch?

I began to wonder how the wisest woman I know, my mother in law, felt when her son brought home his first girlfriend. Did it cause a fracture in her identity? Did she take it as a signal to wear her skirts longer? Her hair shorter? Even now, with me in the picture, how does she reconcile everything she doesn't know? Especially when I come to her, in the heart of a bad time, and expect her to say something that turns my life around.

I am twenty-plus years removed from high school yet I am exactly the same person I was then. Hopeful, searching, confused, sure, resolved, smart, stupid, funny, self-deprecating, self-aggrandizing, judgmental, non-judgmental, appreciative, resentful, trusting, grateful, sad, happy. All the contradictions are present and accounted for, same as always. What confident, sage advice do I, of all mother figures, have to offer this girl?

If she comes to me, I will tell her only what I know: That the days go on and life unfolds in ways we can imagine, but never really learn to expect. That grace and humility can carry us through the changes. That love is the best thing this world has to offer.

What a day it is, the day you see your place in this grand human experience come full, full circle.

eye candy friday -- boys in the front

Schmin and The Bubba, Venice, California, Mother's Day 2006

Maybe it's leftover Valentine's sentimentality, or maybe it's the monthly hormone shift, but today I am thinking about how much my life has been shaped by men. Not just shaped, but gifted. I am not a woman who can't have female friendships, thank God, and my life is as rich as it is because I am deeply connected to a number of unique, spirited women. But there is something about that Y chromosome that presents me with particular growth opportunities. I am calling them opportunities for growth rather than challenges to overcome because I like to keep things positive like that. (I've been watching Oprah since 1782, I'm no dummy.) I have known frustration, yes, but I owe so much of the tender way I've come to see myself to the men who saw me that way long before I could.

Perhaps it's because they don't have to deal with the aforementioned monthly emotional blitzkrieg that the men I know pretty much play it as it lies. I don't know for sure. But what I do know is that, with them, there's not much flare for the dramatic. Don't get me wrong, to me a life without a bit of Sturm und Drang is a life unobserved, but who can live in that space all the time?

Years ago, before I crossed over, I bought a Mac laptop. I was a struggling graduate student trying to make ends meet with the help of student loans and I knew I'd be paying for that Mac a few times over before it was all said and done. So when the thing came I felt like my entire future hinged on its performance. The moment I laid eyes on it, there were, well... expectations. More accurately, I opened the box and waited for the laptop to hop out and propose to me, then whisk me off in its jet airliner to my favorite Caribbean hideaway.

Not only did this not happen, which, when I think about it, was a wee bit unrealistic, but when I went to put in a CD, the drive wouldn't open. I tried and tried to get the thing to pop, but it wouldn't, and eventually its door fell off. This left me in a simpering heap, where I stayed until Schmin happened along. He looked at me there, crying and poking at the computer, and asked calmly, What's the matter with you?

I blubbered something about God being against me and all the fates and the saints conspiring to force me to carve out my ovaries because my brand new out-of-the-box laptop was no good and now I was going to lose precious life moments in sending it back and waiting for it to be repaired and hopefully this wasn't the beginning of a long period of scourge, drought, and locusts attacking the earth.

Schmin looked at the laptop, but not as long or as intensely as I wanted him to, then looked at me again and said, You didn't want a broken one, did you?

Through his words, the wisdom of the Universe finally began making to me: Shit happens.

A broken laptop was what I had, there was no other reality, and if I didn't want it, why was I crying over it? Especially when the thing I did supposedly want was just a phone call away?

I would have to accept the Great What Is -- not my specialty, I tell you -- and send the laptop back, because no, I did not want a broken one, I wanted one that worked. Planning hara-kiri because I couldn't let go of what I'd never had was over the top.

But I couldn't let it go because I had already developed an attachment to the pain I felt over it. Schmin, who was maybe 12 at the time, saw this right off the bat.

Years later I still hear those words: You didn't want a broken one, did you?

I see the way my son looked at me, the way his expression conveyed This is the fact of the matter, deal with this instead of illusion and you will be okay. I hear the lesson he wanted to me to learn -- Go easy. On myself. On the world.

my boy Schmin 

lookout world, the schminster is 21

Schmin, besides that you are the only fruit my loins will ever bear, here are 13 reasons why I love you (I tried to narrow it down to ten, but considering that I could think of at least 10,000, I figure 13 is pretty good):

13) At a party once, when the dean of one of UCLA's colleges tried to tempt you with the "amazing and innovative programs" his school has to offer, you said to him, Sorry man, that's not my thing. At least you're honest.

12) We have shared the nickname Schmin since you were 7.

11) You made me friends. When we were in grad school at Columbia, living in our Columbia apartment near the campus, I'd see classmates and acquaintances and duck to the other side of the street, as is my way. But you, ever gregarious and ready to buddy up, made a point of busting me by yelling to people, Hey, how you doing? Here's my mom. She says hi!

10) You started your own catering business, Kid in the Kitchen, in 9th grade. You single-handedly served school functions and PTA meetings. You took it in stride when people accused you of passing off your mother's baked ziti and salad (and when you'd come home, we'd get big yuks out of that while me and Steven would hit you up for the leftovers).

9) You've always been generous, offering up your pennies so that I never had to rob your piggy bank for gas money.

8) You illuminated my life with a single question. When I expressed anger over having to return my new Mac because the CD drive didn't work, you said to me, "You didn't want a broken one, did you?"

7) You starred as MLK in a first grade tribute. You delivered one hell of an "I Have a Dream," even though you didn't have any front teeth.

6) You will happily claim anyone as a relative. You have no truck with particulars like who is the daughter of which aunt or the father of what cousin. I could show up with a Ukrainian baby and you would immediately go around telling everyone it's your brother.

5) You didn't gripe when I saddled you with the hokey title "Lad of Honor" at my wedding. And when it was time for you to hold my flowers, you did it without (too much) exaggerated masculinity.

4) You so easily loved the Bubba.

3) The two of us together can ride a joke until the wheels fall off.

2) Your grandmother may have doubted many things, but she never doubted that you adored her.

1) You could have made me a 35-year-old grandma, but you didn't.

Happy 21, Schmin. Right now it's killing me that's it's all gone by so fast.

happy birthday, nat-o-lee

Knit up a poodle outfit and look this cute in it, I dare you.

15 january 1966

happy appearance day, mr. stevens

Really, it's impossible to adequately celebrate someone who's meant the world to you since way before you knew what the world was. Twenty-five years.

High school. College. Grad school. Adulthood. Birth. Parenthood. Death. Albums. Tapes. CDs. Haircuts. Hair loss. Hair color. Bills. Cars. Groceries. Apartments. Secrets. Lies. Fists thrown. Money shared. Cold wars. Meltdowns. Love fests. Dancing. Singing. Crying. Drowning. Listening. Vowing. Running. Flying. Careening. Company. Parties. Jobs. Foodstamps. Men. Letters. Poems. Phone calls. Visits. Rites. Rituals. Routines. Cities. States. Distance. Closeness.


If anyone should ever write Steven's life story, I'd beg to include the following:

When I was young and fighting with my baby daddy, he kicked me out with nothing but a fine-toothed comb. Steven got his sister to agree to let me live with her in case I couldn't find my own place, took me to JC Penney and bought me panties on his charge card.

Even though he HATES being called Steve and will cut you if you even try it, when my mother called him Steve, he never once blinked.

One day he gave me a thousand dollars and he wasn't even rich.

He lives with grace, gusto and gratitude, never rolling over, when other men would.

If Steven loves you, there's no way you can not know it.

He comforted me through every corndog boyfriend I thought I couldn't live without.

He thought I was cute before I had the good sense to wax my eyebrows.

He got me my first job out of high school, at Pizza Hut, and when our boss wanted to fire me for averaging 20 minutes to wipe down a table, he gently broke the news that I'd better speed it up.

He believes beyond all reason that I can accomplish every dream I've ever had.

We looked for Schmin on Steven's birthday (he came four days later).

Steven can dance like you would not believe.

He remembers my mother with the same love and longing that I do.

He hitched me and the Bubba in wholly matrimony.

He taught me how to be a generous partner, so that the wholly matrimony might stick.

Steven is Schmin's Godfather.

Steven is Schmin's Godfather and he raised him as his own son.

When my asymmetrical department store haircut came out like a sideways mohawk and I went to him crying, he marched me back to the store and demanded my money back. Look at her, he said to the stylist and the manager, Does this look like a good haircut to you?

The kids at his first library job called him Mr. Stevens instead of Mr. Steven. That tickled us. It still does.

He laughed so hard at my Flori Roberts makeover that I couldn't cry about it.

He's the only person who's ever shared my mother.

Women shaped his world and he's not afraid to say it.

He went to more parent/teacher conferences than I ever did.

We lived together most of our adult lives and never ran out of things to talk about.

When we met in 9th grade science class, he had an afro befitting a prince.

He can draw.

He can sing.

We used to dodge the number 30 bus, the one the cool kids rode, to duck into St. Vincent dePaul's to get our wardrobe on.


My God. Steven was there when Schmin took his first steps. He held out his arms and Schmin fought his own legs to get to him. You'd better believe I love this man. You'd better believe it.

Happy 40th birthday, Steven. Your appearance on this earth, at this time, is evidence of grace.