I realize pumping is a luxury we should relish, as it gives us the freedom to work and do anything else besides breastfeed.  Our mothers didn’t have pumps, so they had to either give us formula or be tethered to us at all times.  Now we can pump when we need to, and someone else can feed our babies breastmilk from the bottle at 3am or while we work.

But pumping is itself a chore, and it takes just as much time as nursing, if not more.  (Who hasn’t spent the entirety of their “me-time” cleaning that fargin’ plastic attachment with the eeny-weeny bottle brush?)

And my biggest complaint about pumping: you need to do it in private.  Unlike breastfeeding, which has become the norm to do in public (at least in my neighborhood), pumping is still seen as undignified.  The image of boobs being pulled through a Medela is positively bovine.

I wish there were a way I could get the pumping and feeding done while I do my favorite thing– socialize.  Why not?  I’ve gotten to the point where I nurse while I hang out (yes, literally).  The next step in our evolution is to be able to pump with the same devil-may-care attitude.  Or, as I like to say, devil-who-wears-prada-may-care attitude.

If we want to make pumping the act of liberation it was meant to be, we need to be shameless.

This guy has no problem with what he’s doing.

We could take a lesson from him in hands-free shamelessness.

Here are some contraptions that would fulfill my wish.

This handy hat/pump combo pumps, feeds, and lets you chat with friends at the same time.

This one allows you to really let loose…Drink without worrying whether you’ll remember to dump it out later.  Dance. Live in the now!

Who wants to start the patent?

No, that’s a lie.  Yes, she’s adorable, but I had her five months ago.  Ok, five-and-a-half.  I haven’t blogged since then, so for Blog Purposes, I just had a baby!  Good for me.  Now I have two kids.  I can’t believe I’m actually taking my itty bit of free time to blog instead of sleep. Thank you, Diet Coke and Iced Coffee (Yes I’m still nursing.  Go ahead and judge.  But if you want to enjoy the fruits of my caffeine — the following post — and still judge, you’re a hypocrite.  That’s okay.  All parents are hypocrites.  More on that later.)

During pregnancy and right afterward, I realized there are so many terms associated with babies and baby-having that either make no sense or are just plain yucky.  So I compiled a list.

BLOODY SHOW - this is supposed to be the bit of blood that comes out of your vadge right before you go into labor.  Doesn’t it sound like a Halloween performance?  Like one of those improv gigs where they throw ketchup at the audience? Or a Brit talking about a bad play? “I gave it a go for mum’s birthday, but the lead actor was such a wanker, I left that bloody show during intermission.”

SPOTTING – More blood coming out your cootch.  If you see blood during pregnancy, should you panic? Yes.  Unless it’s just “spotting.”  I always think of the movie Trainspotting.  Which has nothing to do with blood in your panties.  Good movie though.

MUCUS PLUG – Yuck, yuck, yuck.  This also comes out, right before the baby starts arriving.  Anything with the word “mucus” in it is just gnarly.  Is there an aspect of labor that’s NOT god-awful?  Ok, maybe the baby part…

UMBILICAL STUMP – This is the bit of umbilical goodness that hangs around after the baby’s born, till it eventually falls off on it’s own and becomes the belly button.  It’s in the category of why-the-fuck-don’t-people-tell-you-about-these-things-before-you-have-kids.  The umbilical stump is like that loose tooth that’s been threatening to come out when you least expect it, and eventually winds up in an apple or corn cob.  Eugh, it’s gross as it is, but do we need to incorporate the word “stump.”  I can’t not think of a limb that was amputated in ‘Nam.

CLUSTER FEED — This is when your baby sucks on your tit till it falls off, and then wants more milk.  It’s awful in itself.  Do we have to add the awful name to go with it?  Go ahead, call it Cluster- (something else).

EFFICIENT FEEDER -A baby who latches on quickly, eats what they need, absorbs the nutrients, and lets the mom sleep and go back to work in three weeks.  I hate that there are babies out there who do this.  Way to take all the joy out of eating.

MOM BRAIN – I haven’t officially decided how I feel about this one.  It’s a good excuse for forgetting to empty the Diaper Genie but I can’t tell how real it is.  Are the hormones causing me to take five minutes to think of the word “soup”?  Is it lack of sleep?  Or was I just as much of a dingbat before, and now I have a name for it?

VOLUNTARY SMILE – When your baby makes the choice to smile, as opposed to being forced to for pictures.  Ok, not really.  I guess it’s when the smile is a smile as opposed to gas.  I don’t really know, but it’s too close to Vertical Smile for my taste.

I’m sure I’ve forgotten a few (Mom Brain!)  Help me out and share your favorite, or least favorite, baby-related terms. Or just comment on mine.  Right here:

P.S. Next time I’ll do a list of the non-baby-related terms I hate (like “diarrhea of the mouth.” Yuck.)  You can share yours here and I’ll be sure to include them.

Friday, December 9th, 2011 8pm

8433 Sunset Blvd.

LA, CA 90039

Doors open at 7:30

The theme was Pizza.  It’s actually not that easy to find pizza-themed supplies for a kid’s party.  Since there’s no Disney or Nickelodeon Pizza character, you’re not likely to find anything at Target or Party City.  Gotta search the weirdo sites online.

That’s the costume I made Rob wear.  Well, he said he’d wear it as long as we pretended I was “making” him.  But who’s he foolin’?  He couldn’t wait to become human pizza.  I think he likes when people describe him as “a good sport.”  What’s the word for “mensch” in Italian?

Our friend, Peter, just happened to have a cake costume in his car.  You never know when you’re gonna need one.  Dads.

I wore a costume too.  No one made me.  There’s Samson in the middle, giving his customary mafia stare.

It wasn’t just a pizza party.  It was a make-your-own pizza party.   The kids got to make pizza, then eat their creations.  (We had “adult” pizza for the parents so we didn’t have to partake of that.  Though I heard the kids’ pies were actually pretty good.  The oven temp was high enough to cook off the toddler germs.)

I love how all the dads are focused on making the pizza while the moms gab.

Samson likes to taste while he cooks.  All great chefs do this.

And now, the pizza de resistance…

I spent a week planning, baking, and decorating this cake.  It’s my first foray into fondant.  I’m pretty proud.  A pizza cake is a good start when working with fondant because it’s supposed to be “rustic,” as opposed to smooth and perfect.  Of course, I was still perfectionisty about it.  The pepperoni have marbleized fat.  I’m not a humble baker.

Samson’s favorite part of any birthday party is cake.  It’s genetic.

Needless to say, we couldn’t get Samson to nap that day.  Sugar tantrums are no fun, but that’s the price of a great party.  Happy Birthday to my big 2-year-old!  Growing so fast. (Sniff.)

Are you in awe of my cake skills?  All comments are appreciated.

I had just seen the movie Clueless on HBO the night before this horror show of a mistake. I remember being shitfaced and watching Paul Rudd and Alicia Silverstone make out to General Public. I collapsed on my bed in a drunken state of self-pity. I was 22. I had fallen in love with a girl at my college two days before I graduated. I have no memory as to how I tried to convince the broad to love me back. It was clear she didn’t though. We had slept together about a week before I fell in love with her. She said things to me as we fucked like ‘your so popular’! As I came with her I thought ‘I am! I am popular! This college is going to miss me!’
A month later I was in NYC, weeping and probably masturbating after watching Clueless. I had already seen it by the way. Yuck. What a drunken dipshit thing to get sad about — that I wasn’t living in Clueless.
The next day I was going to meet a buddy for a “business lunch date.”  This was during that fake internet boom. Everyone was a CEO of some internet company. They somehow had all this dough; all I ever saw back then was like a bad version of a Tron video game that was suppose to somehow tell you the best place to get a steak in whatever city you were in. Nothing, as I remember, ever worked back then.
The lunch date wasn’t lunch. We had drink after drink after drink and when he brought up the internet I would shut his face and interrupt him by ordering a drink. This dude was going to see that band Phish at around 6Pm. I was obliterated and still had no intention of seeing Phish. I don’t ever eat fish and I have never seen Phish and if all the fish and members of Phish were zapped I wouldn’t know or care.
But I walked him to the Phish show. Maybe at Wetlands!? I’m not sure and I don’t care now and didn’t care then. They could be strumming in a gutter, starving in a tunnel or noodling away at Wetlands and I’d block it out. I DID block it out!
I went to a bar alone around 7 and began playing pool. I got a splinter that later turned my whole pinky green. Around 10 I started talking to an older woman. I was telling her lie after lie. She looked like Pat Benatar. She looked like Pat Benatar made up for a role in a monster movie.
I was telling her I was a big shot on Wall Street. I know nothing about Wall Street now except there are protests going on there. I knew less about Wall Street then. I think I was telling her I was working on a fictional thing called The McCullen vs McCullen case. I also told her I was an analyst; my friend was an analyst, so I just said that I was one too. She said she had a similar job. I nodded and thought “oh, we are both fucking liars.” I told her I had a huge meeting with the McCullen people. Lies! She told me she was engaged to the mobster Chris Pacillo.  Note: I haven’t a clue how to spell his last name and he is in witness protection now with a new last name, so who gives a shit.
We got back to my place around 3Am. I was totally unemployed, as I have been much of my life. She had a gigantic joint of weed she said was laced. I smoked it homeboy style, like I was sucking in a disease. She puffed it all dainty like, looking like a total shithead. We hit the bed at 5Am and I ripped her clothes off. Her head was beginning to look like a giant eraser to me. I was about to finger fuck her and she said ‘No!’ A wave of hidden relief fled over me! This was going to end now. “Wash your finger!” She shrieked.
“What?” I said.
“Go wash your finger in a sink. It looks filthy!” Could she have been referring to my pinky!? It wasn’t even infected yet. And who the fucking hell on this planet pinky fucks a pussy?? Ew. Some mobster she knew probably pinky ring fingered her all the time. But this is academic. Even if she thought she was going to get pinkied, my pinky was days away from turning green. Maybe Its like she had a 6th sense for dangerous obstacles in filthy sex and people.
So I washed my hands and 5 seconds later I was inside her. So drunk and high I just sat, missionary, and thought about the girl I still loved. 5 seconds later I came and as I came, my brain changed from “slacker whateverness” to horror! I gave her a loving peck on the cheek that Dustin Hoffman would have trouble doing with sincerity.
As I said, I was totally unemployed. I looked at the sun shining through the window and said, “well I better get to Wall Street! The Strauss vs Strauss case is today.” More Lies!
I got in the shower and shaved discussing the pros and cons of Strauss, McCullan and Stern (somehow these names morphed into my firm), loud so she could hear my babble. I put on a Prada suit. Something you’d wear to a…well I don’t know. I would wear it around my house mostly.  I made a fake call to Strauss, McCullan and Stern, “shit, ill be right there!”  EraserWoman was puffing away at my Marlboros.  Take em. Take anything and let’s end this cruel charade. Freak!
Outside we walked to the 2 train. Every face on the street I thought I knew from somewhere. I’d dart ahead of the woman and then bang, she was trotting beside me again! Trotting and flapping! Like a retarded pegasus! “Well I’m going to Wall Street.”
Suspicion! Then:  ”I’m going to Fulton,” she said coyly. Fuck me!!!!
In the sweaty subway station both the local and the express came and went. I stood and stared at them like a crummy scarecrow, stalling, not willing to follow through with my jobless job bluff.  ”Those weren’t my trains! Neither of them!” I said.
“How could that be?” Her eraser head had become a skyscraper and the universe was watching us.
“Ahhhh my train!” Same train I rejected before,  I zombiewalked onto it!
“I’ll get on it too” she grinned. Huge SUSPICION!
“I’m hot’ I said. In fact fuck this!”
“Fuck what?” A white dude with dreadlocks(which pretty much equals the worst guy on the planet) was smiling at me. Shaking his head. What a Fucker! I thought.
“Fuck work! And fuck wall street,” I made a mad dash as the doors opened on 42nd street! Sprinting out into the uptown train car I didn’t even look back.  I’m sure she wasn’t surprised. My chariot to sleep began to zoom away from my disaster. Sweating through my suit I zipped up to 72nd street! Jogged. Then ran to my apartment building. Instructed my doorman(my doormen have always been allies, brothers, fathers to me) to not let anyone up ever again.  I said “ever again.” Naked by the time I hit my couch.  ”Fuck’ I said.  Ha ha. Fuck my own Wall Street!”

Sunday, October 9th 2pm

Beverly Hills Playhouse

254 South Robertson Boulevard

Beverly Hills, CA 90211

Sunday, September 25th, 8pm

8433 Sunset Blvd. LA, CA 90069

Come laugh!

Friday, July 15th, 2011

9:30pm

4326 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90029

Friday, May 20th

7:30pm

Malo

4326 Sunset Blvd.

LA, CA 90029

Come as you are.  Leave fulfilled, enlightened, and inspired! (no, those are not the same things).