Oh Brother Where Art Thou

When will our brown dog become the brother that the big-headed-baby deserves?

When will he stop his whining and kabitzing and man up to this new role? Ok, big dog up?

When can we put the credit card back in the freezer and stop buying doggie eye procedures and surgical supplies?

Anyone?

So yep, when hubs and Bongo visited our new BFF's at Pasadena Eye Care for Animals (I capitalize and link with respect) on Thursday, they gave us some bad news. Essentially stop-gap procedure on eye #2 had not worked like it had on eye #1 and while we could try another 500 dollar option, with success rate of only 50%, the only really effective move was to bust out the 2K surgery at a 90% success rate. Since we were already 400 dollars in, we figured...ok wait. I know. It's kinda low class to talk numbers but on the OTHER hand - specificity helps storytelling, so propriety be damned, that's whats going on. And shoot, why not go all the way there? We are now 3k into this cute dog's eyeball's, and my god I hope that's all we need to do to prove we love him this week.

Now all of my pet-loving friends out there, you are all nodding and blinking along going, yep totally, that's what credit cards are for. And all of you Momma's who have bills that kick my vet bill's ass due to physical challenges with your human kids, I apologize for going on about this. My guess is that in the face of serious hardship, this is a bit whatev's. But seeing as how he is our first born, and was until very recently the only true love of our lives, I am compelled to share more. (than before)

Side note: I've been reading a ton of blogs tonight and really touched by what I'm finding out there. In that spirit I'm going to have to link it up to where I've been and why I suspect my puppy troubles are Nothin'....amazing blog here.

So here's the thing. My dog doesn't like our baby, he really doesn't.
If we kiss the baby, he harumphs. You think I'm kidding? I do not kid. It is a groaning Harumph sound.
If we laugh and coo at the baby, he whines and paces.
If I am hanging with the baby, I don't' know, feeding the child? I get the stare. Please witness.

Okay so they are both staring at the nut-job with the camera. But you can imagine.

I get that as a cooped-up Mom with a new-ish baby I'm on the list of potentially coo-coo-for-cocoa-puff's and voted 'Most Likely to Loose It Before Christmas' and since I think my dog is thinking deep dark thoughts about how to get his #1 status back, it's probably hyperbole and over-reaction. And if you think so, I would like to invite you over.

Here's a photo essay to prove my point:

Blanket time turns into squish the baby time:

How cute are their feet? Is it troubling that I'm shooting pictures instead of rescuing the child from his brown butt?


The little one is pretty good nature-d about it..















I finally realized that this rug is the brown dog's rug and that the mistake was CLEARLY mine when I thought it was okay to put the baby blanket's on his rug.

I mean.

Sheesh.

Don't you love the tail over the boy?


So what do y'all suggest?

Working Girl

Blinking cursor. Blink you blinking cursor! You suck and you're torturing me with your blinkiness on white. Blink!

I'm paralyzed by how much I want to talk about. What would Brian Boitano do? Make a plan, and follow through...mmmkay. Let's make a list! Bloggers love them some list, don't they?

1. Went to work today for the first time since the baby bean showed up. I wept on the way out to set. I forgot essential pumping parts so my body suffered needlessly as it ached to feed the boy who was 30 miles away. To summarize it was a mix of exhilarating and devastating and everything in between. A great first job out since it was tiny crew and easy shooting in the exterior sparkly sunlight. I stole many a glance at my iPhone to admire pictures of the little guy...and of course made other poor unsuspecting crew and actors admire his big head on the little screen. Hey! In fact! Here are some recent pictures are for your viewing pleasure:





2. Bongo saga continues. Send up a puppy prayer if you believe in doggie dieties. We're sliding dangerously close to actual eye surgery folks, and we are silently screaming for him as well as (let's get honest) our bank account. More tomorrow, will keep you posted. Ha! oh I do love bad puns.

In the meantime, these pictures begin to tell the story:

From when lil G showed up, back in April and we had a crazy heat wave in LA. It's a tenuous beginning....

This one is I took this week- it appears that they can't even look at each other!


3. And for door #3, I am going to tell you something shocking. Get ready, are you? Did you sit? Well, hold onto your sandwiches because - tonight, we put the baby down completely awake and alert and HE SOOTHED HIMSELF AND WENT DOWN WITHOUT (k I'll stop yelling) he went down, to a deep fabulous sleep without a single pop-up. There are usually 2-3 in the first hour or so that require some milking or rocking to convince him that sleep is the swell way to go. These pop up's have become a staple that we are actually fine with seeing as how it is usually followed by the 4-5 hour stretch of sleep, so this little party seems damn reasonable.

But! Hey! Holla! I'm just floored that he went down unassisted tonight. And for all of you veteran mom's who are shaking your head like that... I see you! And I feel y'all, I do. "It's one night Jane! Calm down sister, the Blog Brag is going to totally bite you in the ass." You're probably right. I get that these victories are temporary. But does that make them any less sweet? I say no. I say that this book is helping and all of the little subtle stuff we're doing is working. Dammit. That's way I say. I'm sure I'll be back to eat crow soon.

Oh how I wish this post was a little more bedazzled with pics and other funness. I'll bring more sizzle to the table soon. And you know, I have to say thanks. Thanks for the comments and love that y'all passed along, even and especially the one-handed wonders. I shamelessly asked for comments, and y'all totally obliged me. And now that you know I'm a big ol whore for comments....well, you know.

Lost In Space

ahem. attention!

hello?

I'm just hanging out here, a tiny zipcode of IP magic thanks to Blogger (well Google) who gifts me this lil' piece of the Interweb. But why do they offer such real estate? In case I become Dooce and sell s-loads of diet coke ad's next to my witty banter cascade of whining, anxious, yet hopeful words?

Nah, doubtful. Google knows what it's doing, and as it's becoming more and more obvious, I clearly do not. I guess that's what I'm spinning around in tonight, the vastness of the space. I was going to say cyberspace, but I got a little slap down doing the research, here's what Wikipedia says...

Cyberspace as an internet metaphor

While cyberspace should not be confused with the internet, the term is often used to refer to objects and identities that exist largely within the communication network itself, so that a website, for example, might be metaphorically said to "exist in cyberspace." According to this interpretation, events taking place on the internet are not happening in the locations where participants or servers are physically located, but "in cyberspace".

I found this gorgeous image in my search to understand the above. Apparently it's a visual representation of what a piece of the internet might look like. By the way, did you know that we might run out of internet space? Pretty freakin' nuts, right? Time for some IP addy hoarding to save yourself. Well, 'cept you won't, just like most of us LA citizens who do not actually have an earthquake kit. Our family is pretty much ready because we've got about 5 extra jars of TJ's almond butter and 3 cans of black beans. The end of the world will be a gassy, sticky affair. But I digress.

When I'm typing into this black hole of inter-web-inter-connectivity nothingness, I feel both excited to be reaching and yet lonely not knowing where it's landing. It reminds me of the first setting on our sleep sheep. It's supposed to be 'white noise' but instead it's a whale's whooping cry that rings out into the darkness of the big headed baby's room. (bhb photo to left for your enjoyment) The trouble is that no other whales ever answer because it's a loop. Freakin' depressing right? I imagine a giant gray whale swimming alone in a vast dark sea pinging the sonar again and again, but. Nothing comes back. Kinda like trying to talk on the ATnT wireless network. Is there anything worse then chatting along and then finally figuring out that the last two paragraph's of a self-obsessed monologue has fallen into the gap of dropped call netherland? I get that twangy mix of embarrassment and loneliness.

So this basically my round about way of asking...Hi, um, who are you? I know a few of my buddies have signed up as followers, god bless 'em (even though they'll never be back to read this). But hey! If you are here, reading, can you give me a shout out via the comment thingee? I promise I won't ask again.

Oh and I"ll be sure to follow your whale song back to your part of the ocean too...

Life is pain, Highness!

...Anyone who says differently is selling something.  (name that movie for a giveaway!) Ahem, I don't have giveaways yet. But a girl can dream.

So for those of you playing along, I apologize for not posting in a while. I've mentioned my slap-down from the PPD fairy more than once, and yes, that sparkly little beeyatch got a hold of me and swung me around by my hair a bit in recent times. It's a strange phenom to one moment be a normal person mildly annoyed by the incessant gardening that goes on in my neighborhood and the next...

Quick digression: By gardening I don't mean harvesting string beans and red-leaf lettuce, by gardening I mean the horrific buzzing created when those pick-up trucks arrive with 14 leaf blowers and tiny men to drive all crap into the air and into our house. I literally run around closing the windows to protect my surfaces 'cause lawd knows I'm not going to dust.

Ok we're back...moment I'm a weeping wonder with not a hope in the world for a better time. It's a freak show of "we're all going to die, not even Obama can save us, why did we bring a child into this awful world, and why do I suck so bad as a Momma". I know Brooke Shields and others have written about this terrible affliction, but let me just add my voice to the din and say this. Holy Kee-rap it Sucks Ass. Truly.

So I am writing from a new land. It's a little bit better. But then last night happened. The cute hubbers offered to put the boy down while I wandered off to a WIF meeting. I recently directed two PSA's for those lovely womens, and a fun fact is that one of them is nominated for an Emmy. Touch me, right? Let's be clear, it's a local LA Emmy, so I'm not going to hang out with Liz Lemon and other such celeb. But it's still pretty cool. So I went to you know, network and stuff at the meeting and he bravely stayed here for the Italian Opera which what we affectionately call the putting-the-boy-down process.

Apparently our little opera star wasn't having it as he has come to expect a large intake of milk and delivered in that special way that well, only the Momma's got. Sure he takes a bottle people! We didn't f that up at least. But sadly I've made the fatal mistake of having the sleep association run by the aforementioned delivery. Okay, I'll say it. I nurse him to sleep and yep, it's by the book wrong, I know. I know! Go ahead and feel free to tell me again, but I know. So god bless hubs, last night turned into two hours of inconsolable wailing. When I got home the baybee had just gone to sleep, apparently just flopped onto Dad's chest from the pure exhaustion of singing the No Momma Blues.
 picture featured: father's day 2009. Back when sleep was easy...

Oh man.  That was me, just trying to be a networking chic. Looking down the chute for another gig to feed this little machine we've got running here. And what do I get? An email letting me know that putting down the baby with out me is not an option, and that the pain was too much to bear. I know that married people probably shouldn't discuss really important shit via email, but, we did. I emailed him back the quote that opened this post which was preceded by...

You mock my pain!

And by that I wanted him to know I wasn't mocking his pain, or the boy's. I'm just flailing around here trying to find a way, some way to make this all work. And I agree, it's painful at times.

But my current angst is that my boobs and I are probably not going to be attending the Emmy ceremony. Damn.

May I Admire You?

Dear John Hughes,

I know you don't know me, but like millions of other children of the 80's, I know you. Or actually I think it's more accurate that you knew us. Your love for us created such masterworks that elevated the 'teen movie' into a new genre worthy of much respect. Scenes from your films are sometimes mixed into my memories as if I wore bitchin' pink stuff I'd sewn myself or spent a day in detention with a hot angstee guy. I had a devastating crush on Andrew McCarthy just because you made a great choice in casting. And when I saw Gedde Watanabe at the Back Door Bakery I promise you I didn't quote his most famous character back to him, your brilliant, hilarious and now politically incorrect words like everyone else does but instead I played the part of cool neighbor as we discussed the perils of dog raising. And what a nice guy he is, by the way. But you know.

Today when I heard about your death I felt a heart-pulling-south feeling, the empty, breeze through my gut feeling I get sometimes when I think of my own father who left the planet so long ago. Tonight I grieve for your family. I grieve for your friends. I grieve for the girl who was your pen-pal when we all wanted to be.

Thank you for making the amazing films that you did. You've inspired generations of filmmakers.

Danke schoen.

With Much Admiration and Respect,

Jane

Richard Vernon: You're not fooling anyone, Bender. The next screw that falls out will be you.
John Bender: Eat my shorts.
Richard Vernon: What was that?
John Bender: Eat... My... Shorts.
Richard Vernon: You just bought yourself another Saturday.
John Bender: Ooh, I'm crushed.
Richard Vernon: You just bought one more.
John Bender: Well I'm free the Saturday after that. Beyond that, I'm going to have to check my calendar.
Richard Vernon: Good, cause it's going to be filled. We'll keep going. You want another one? Just say the word say it. Instead of going to prison you'll come here. Are you through?
John Bender: No.
Richard Vernon: I'm doing society a favor.
John Bender: So?
Richard Vernon: That's another one right now! I've got you for the rest of your natural born life if you don't watch your step. You want another one?
John Bender: Yes.
Richard Vernon: You got it! You got another one right there! That's another one pal!
Claire Standish: Cut it out!
Richard Vernon: You through?
John Bender: Not even close bud!
Richard Vernon: Good! You got one more right there!
John Bender: You really think I give a shit?
Richard Vernon: Another! You through?
John Bender: How many is that?
Brian Johnson: That's seven including when we first came in and you asked Mr. Vernon whether Barry Manilow knew that he raided his closet.
Richard Vernon: Now it's eight. You stay out of this.
Brian Johnson: Excuse me sir, it's seven.

Andrew: Why do you have to insult everybody?
John Bender: I'm being honest, asshole. I would expect you to know the difference.

Courage! Courage!

Gonna go a little Disney on you here, ready?
Why do we have the dreams we do?

Why do I dream of directing feature films that make people laugh and cry in a dark theater? (It makes me heart drop to even type that) Why should I be inflicted with this practically impossible dream that countless other saps have? Why, damn you, why~!

Medium shot: Jane crying in the rain, crane shot as we lift up and away from her as she shakes her fists at the sky.

I've often wished for a more 'normal' or realistic dream. How about becoming a Dentist? Or a Contract Lawyer? Sure these are tough professions but not freakin' insurmountable. In fact, so sweetly simple. You go to school, you get mounds of debt, you buy a shiny car with seat warmers, you buy a big-ass house, you pay off debt, you raise a couple of kids and freak out when they want to become musicians or filmmakers and do you know why? Because it's a painful, shrapnel filled road filled with disappointment, phonies and existential crisis rendering, gut-wrenching doubt.

So I'm sitting here in my rented house with the sweet, sleeping baby in the next room and the handsome husband typing in the other room (he's pounding out his novel) and my throat closes as I listen to "Title and Registration" on my itunes because this song just about sums it up for me. Dreaming, wishing - reaching and wondering. Will it happen? Or will I die with the disappointment and regret of not doing the thing that I feel somehow destined to do and simultaneously scares the shit out of me?

Ugh. I hate this post. Can you feel my angst? I can't type hard enough into this keyboard to give these words the urgent bold, italic juice that this topic requires. It all sounds so pat and obvious. But. How will I achieve this impossible dream? Cue all of those damn quotable magnets that say shit like 'whatever you dream you can do, do it, get off your ass loser' Oh wait, that's the way it rolls through my addled brain.

Or any of these others that lift my spirits and inspire me in that sparkly, otherworldly way and simultaneously piss me off to no end...



So let's summarize. I need courage, and fast. This fall my mom is going to roll into town to help us out and take care of the ankle-biter so we can shoot our short film...which is a fundraiser for our feature film. Today the husband and I met about it during nap #2 and ohmygawd even talking about it riled up my nerves. Ridiculous? Totally. I can shoot anything for anyone else any day of the week and feel no concern, but when it's the script that hubby wrote that I love, love? I'm shaking in my flip-flops.

Rough New Prizes

Listen, I will be honest with you
I do not offer the old smooth prizes
But offer rough new prizes
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is called riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve.
However sweet the laid up stores,
However convenient the dwelling, you shall not remain there.
However sheltered the port, however calm the waters, you shall not anchor there.
However welcome the hospitality that welcomes you,
You are permitted to receive it but a little while Afoot and lighthearted, take to the open road
Healthy, free, the world before you the long brown path before you, leading wherever you choose.
Say only to one another:
Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money; I give you myself before preaching and law:
Will you give me yourself?
Will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

extract from Song of the Open Road - Walt Whitman

I got married to the cute husband in 2001. Fall 2001. September 2001 to zero in on it, and okay, shit here it is: September 29th, 2001. Hey evil doers - I don't use my anniversary in any passwords. Just fyi.
Annnyway. We had the above read at the ceremony as seen in above picture by above dear friend. 18 days after 9.11 we all needed another good cry as well as a reason to celebrate, and our wedding proved to be quite a lovely affair offering time for both. This poem (okay, excerpt) really sends me into my love of falling water from my face.

Wait, sorry - side note. Am I a big dork for linking to my own posts when I only have like five so far? Please let me know. K, we're back.

I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't realize at the time that this is an excerpt of the poem. It wasn't until I googled 'smooth old prizes' recently did I discover the whole she-bang. It's a long ass poem in comparison, and if you're missing your 12th grade AP English class check it out. However I hope you'll agree that this lil cheesy wedding version above does pack a good heart-tugging punch.
I'm finally going to get to the point, thanks for staying with me. I've been living in smooth old prizes land for quite some time now. Married and happy. Rockin' good friends. Work comes and goes, freelance is freaky at times but we've always been well taken care of. In fact I feel pretty damn lucky that I've shot stuff that made me giddiously happy and gotten paid really well for it. Despite my ability to create drama, it really was a pretty easy life swimming around in the calm waters.
Enter adorable, squishy, munchee face, big-headed baby who is now an inhabitant in my household and heart. As I've already shared here, not so smooth, not always so easy. World has officially gotten rocked.
In fact, I almost named this blog Rough New Prize, because that is what he is I think. I have remained too long in the sheltered port and now I see that I must Afoot and Lighthearted take to the open road.

Even when I feel trapped in my own house and domesticity.
Even when the PPD Fairy kicks my ass like today.
 Even when I can't figure out how to schedule a dentist appointment because it's an overwhelming task.
Even when my heart and tired brain ache for simplicity and ease.

I can see the long brown path before me and ohmygod I hope I do right by this fresh, new person. Ohmygod I do.