Whitney Gaskell: January 2005 Archives

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Skin Deep

Whitney: A reader e-mailed me today, and told me that she thinks I look just like Sandra Bullock in my publicity photo! She said that she and her husband we're discussing it and they both think so!

George: You don't look anything like Sandra Bullock.

Whitney:

George:

Whitney:

George: I used to look like James Spader, though.

Whitney:

George: I'm sorry, hon, but you don't look anything like her.

Whitney:

George: You're prettier!

Whitney:

Link | 25 January 2005 at 08:21 PM | | Comments (0)

Book Club

Lately, I've been awash in good books. Here’s a sampling of my latest must-reads (I've also updated my recommendations page to include them):

(1) Joyride by Lindsay Faith Rech: A completely addictive novel about friendship, love and betrayal. I've had this on my nightstand for months -- I knew from the chatter at the chicklitbooks.com forum not to pick this one up until I had the time to get lost in it -- and it just blew me away. And Lindsay is only 26 years old . . . how does someone so young write so well? I can't wait for her next book . . . she's truly a writer to watch for.

(2) The Women of the Other World series by Kelley Armstrong: This is another writer I learned about on chicklitbooks.com. Supernatural plots have really never been my thing, but one of the women posting there was so enthusiastic about Armstrong's books, I decided to pick up Bitten . . . and now I'm hooked. I loved Bitten so much, I immediately ordered her other three books, and despite all best efforts to space them out, I gobbled them up, one after another.

(3) Little Earthquakes by Jennifer Weiner: To be completely honest, although I enjoyed Weiner's other books, I kept putting off reading this one. I knew that one of the topics it covered was infant loss, and that I might have a hard time reading about that. Finally I decided to get the audio version and listen to it while I ran . . . and immediately became so absorbed in the story that I've been carrying around my cd player and listening to it while I eat lunch, do the dishes and cook dinner. Weiner reads the book on the audio version, and she's wonderful . . . she has a beautiful speaking voice. I'm so glad that I didn't miss out on this book.

(4) My Losing Season by Pat Conroy: I'm a die hard Conroy fan . . . The Prince of Tides had such a profound affect on me, I still remember the first time I read it. It was the summer after my sophomore year in college, and I had a dreadful job waitressing at a country club in the Adirondacks (think Dirty Dancing, minus Patrick Swayze, the dancing and the fun). I started to read The Prince of Tides, and was so caught up in the story, all I did was sleep, work and read. Conroy's memoir, My Losing Season, is basically a sports book -- which I never read -- but this will appeal to all Conroy fans simply for how much background it gives you on his wonderful novels. I didn't know that Conroy has had such a tragic life, which saddens me . . . clearly great talent doesn't guarantee a happy existence.

Link | 25 January 2005 at 05:57 PM | | Comments (0)

Desperate Housewives

The Mother's Group is a tough nut to crack.

I remember back before I was a mom, a friend who had recently relocated told me that in her efforts to make some new friends she felt like she was stalking other moms at Story Hour.

"It's like dating again, only worse," she said.

I thought she was exaggerating. After all, moms should have a natural affinity for one another . . . right? We're bonded by diaper changes and leaky breasts and interrupted sleep and that final layer of baby fat that just won't budge off your thighs and ass.

But, as it turns out, she wasn't exaggerating. If anything, she was underestimating how hard it is to break in. Dating, pah . . . men are easy compared with a group of women. These chicks have thirty-plus years of experience with high school cliques and sorority rushes, and are now experts at the cold shoulder. Sam and I just got back from our second Story Hour, and I haven't been able to get anyone there to even make eye contact with me, much less a chance to slide in the ever popular conversation starter, "Your baby is adorable!"

I seem to remember that sharing stickers went a long way toward breaking the ice back in grade school, but something tells me that's not going to work with the In Mommy Clique. What do I have to do? Bring in twenty bottles of chardonnay and get everyone loaded at 9 a.m.?

Actually, maybe that's not such a bad idea . . .

Link | 25 January 2005 at 10:46 AM | | Comments (0)

Missing Comments

I deleted some of your comments by accident . . . sorry.

My site has been inundated with comment spam, and when I go into Moveable Type to delete it, I keep screwing up and deleting real comments, too.

We're working on a solution . . . what it will be, I don't know. Some bloggers handle the comment spam by forcing all of their posters to register on their site, but so far I haven't wanted to do that. I think it would tend to discourage commenters.

Any computer gurus out there?

Link | 24 January 2005 at 09:52 PM | | Comments (0)

Life With A Toddler, Part 7

The Whirling Vortex of Chaos.

That's our new nickname for Sam. The boy has a special talent for making a mess. I know I'm still relatively new to this parenting gig, but I've really never seen anything quite like it. In a matter of seconds, he can dismantle any room -- books on the ground in a jumble, toys akimbo, toilet paper unspooled, stacks of laundry demolished.

Lately he's expanded his field of expertise to include hiding things. This morning, for example, Sam and I were actually dressed and fed and ready to walk out the door, shopping list in hand, at the early hour of 9 a.m. The only problem . . . I couldn't find my keys.

Sigh.

So I began my search, crouching down to survey the house from the perspective of a three foot munchkin. After twenty minutes of searching, I found the keys behind the toilet in the guest bathroom. And, bonus, during my search I also uncovered the hair brush that had gone missing the day before. The stud finder is still MIA.

The problem with this game of hide and seek is that one of Sam's favorite hiding spots is the garbage can (this actually works both ways; he also enjoys taking things out of the garbage can -- i.e., garbage -- and spreading them around the house). So when things disappear, we're never sure if they're just missing temporarily . . . or if the City of Stuart has hauled them off during its twice weekly garbage pick-up.

Link | 24 January 2005 at 07:43 PM | | Comments (0)

Sweet Sixteen

What all the cool girls are wearing to prom this year.

The story.

So far, says Helen Rodriguez, Nagpal's sales associate, no one has bought the $495 gown - but it just arrived.

"Our biggest sellers are still the traditional princess ball gowns, but sometimes a parent will come in with their daughter and will buy her whichever dress she wants," Rodriguez said. "If my daughter had the body to wear it, I'd let her!"

Gah.

Update: Everytime I see this picture, it shocks me anew. And George and I have decided that her left nipple was airbrushed out of the photo.

Link | 24 January 2005 at 12:46 PM | | Comments (0)

Life With A Toddler, Part 6

All mothers dream of the day when their wee ones will look up at them with adoring eyes, and say, "I love you, Mommy."

Sam isn't quite there yet.

"No, Sam-bean, don't put that in your mouth," I warn him. "It's dirty."

"Dirty," Sam parrots.

"Yes! That's right! Dirty," I say, delighted.

"Dir-ty, Dir-ty, Dir-ty," Sam sings.

"Can you say Mama?" I ask.

"Dirty!"

"Ma-ma."

"Dirty," Sam says firmly.

While giving Sam a crash course in table manners, I try to explain how a fork differs from a spoon.

"With a fork, you stab your food. See? Stab," I say, demonstrating the technique with his Peter Rabbit fork and a segment of mandarin orange.

"Stab!" Sam says.

"Um . . . right," I say.

"Stab! Stab, stab, stab," Sam giggles.

"Well, yes, but . . . how about 'I love my mommy,' instead?"

"Stab!"

Link | 24 January 2005 at 08:50 AM | | Comments (0)

Jaws

Any interest I might have had in scuba diving -- which, I must admit, was negligible to begin with -- was lost after watching the movie Open Water last night.

Although it did prompt George to look deep into my eyes and say, "Honey, if we're ever in the middle of the ocean being attacked by sharks and I die . . . it's okay if you swim away from my body while the sharks feast on my remains."

If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

Link | 22 January 2005 at 06:31 PM | | Comments (0)

Tacky

The local news is all a-flutter about Donald Trump's Palm Beach wedding.

My reaction: yawn.

And $132,013 for a dress? That's just obscene. But I'm sure the bride and groom will live happily ever after . . . or at least until he runs out of money or her looks start to fade.

Link | 22 January 2005 at 04:41 PM | | Comments (0)

Madeline, 1997-2005

Today we said good-bye to our Maddy. She'd been in failing health for a number of months, and we came to the sad realization that the recovery we'd been hoping for would not be coming. The end was short and merciful, but terribly sad.

Good-bye, my sweet girl. You will be missed.

Link | 20 January 2005 at 11:49 AM | | Comments (0)

The Big Easy

So we did it. George and I took our first baby-free trip. We left Sam with his grandmother while we went to New Orleans for the weekend. And I only called five times to check on the baby. Well, fiveish, if you just count the times that I actually got through to someone.

Being back in New Orleans was surreal. It's the city where George and I met and fell in love, where we married and lived as newlyweds. So going back without Sam, and having dinner where we went on our first date and seeing a movie at our old neighborhood movie theatre, felt a little like traveling through a time warp.

I also feel like we got royally screwed.

When we lived in New Orleans, the city was funky but had a dark edge. The murder rate was the highest in the country. The apartment I lived in, on the corner of Fourth and Magazine Streets, was across the street from a crack house. I used to sit on my balcony, and watch people dash in and out of the crack house, letting a billow of smoke out as they opened the front door. We left New Orleans four years ago, convinced that between the soaring crime rate and below-average salaries, it wasn't a safe place to raise our children.

Fast forward four years, and New Orleans is attempting to reinvent itself as San Francisco. Gone are the burnt out store fronts and decrepit houses on Magazine Street; they've been replaced by day spas, cute boutiques and Starbucks. The hovel I once lived in has been remodeled into chi-chi condos. It's like the whole damn Garden District has been beaten by the Yuppie Stick. It's no longer good-block-bad-block. Now it's good-block-better-block.

We felt a little better when we toured the Quarter, especially when we came thisclose to getting mugged. That place is still the same shithole it always was, full of overpriced bars and cheap tourist shops, and where you have to be careful not to step in one of festering puddles of vomit that decorate the sidewalk. We spent an hour there before we remembered why we always avoided the place, and then left as quickly as we could.

But the oddest thing about being in New Orleans was realizing just how much my life has changed since we left. When I lived in New Orleans I wasn't yet a published writer, but an unsuccessful attorney weighed down by the certainty that I'd chosen the wrong career path and unsure what to do about it. I hadn't experienced the joy of learning I was pregnant, nor had I endured the shattering grief of losing my first son. I hadn't yet welcomed Sam into the world, hadn't sat up nursing him in the middle of the night while marveling at just how much I loved him. I hadn't yet watched my husband become a father, hadn't yet experienced how our bottomless devotion to our son would bring us even closer together. I hadn't yet been introduced to my parents as the grandparents of my son.

Part of me wants to go back and say to the woman I was then, "I'm not going to lie to you: there are tough times ahead. But there will be great joy, too, and you'll be more blessed than you can ever imagine."

But then again, maybe I should just leave her alone. She'll learn about it all soon enough.

Link | 18 January 2005 at 09:06 AM | | Comments (0)

Heard Around the House, Part Nine

Whitney: Here's your shirt. I washed it with the sheets and used my special fabric softener, so it smells like lavender.

George: Oh good. Because that's what I want to smell like. At the office. Around all the other men. Lavender.

Link | 11 January 2005 at 11:31 PM | | Comments (0)

TGIF

In the past four days I've had to call Poison Control twice (note: child-proof bottle tops are not Sam-proof) and taken Sam in to have his hand x-rayed after he slammed it in my closet door. He's fine, but I'm a wreck. In fact, when the x-ray tech asked if there was any chance I might be pregnant, my response was, “Oh good God, NO!” Seriously, if this is what he's like as a toddler, what's going to happen when he's sixteen and wants to get his driver's license?

My beloved Dr. Karp has a theory that kids this age are basically little chimpanzees. He may be on to something. One of my mom friends recently found her son standing on top of her computer monitor (which was sitting on top of her desk). Another reported that her toddler swiped a bottle of beer and downed it while kicking back in her tot-sized recliner.

At Sam's one-year well child exam, our pediatrician informed me that the terrible twos start at one . . . and I just laughed, thinking he was making a joke . . .

Link | 07 January 2005 at 02:20 PM | | Comments (0)

Snart 30 . . .

. . . is Norwegian for Pushing 30.

Link | 04 January 2005 at 06:26 PM | | Comments (0)

Betty Crocker I Am Not

Today is George's 36th birthday. I decided to bake him a cake.

Noon: Feed Sam lunch, and while he's confined to his highchair, mix together the cake batter from scratch.

12:30: Pop cake pans in pre-heated oven. Set timer for thirty minutes.

1:00: Check cakes. Notice they’re both still raw in middle.

1:05: Check cakes again. Still not done.

1:10: Ditto

1:12: Remove cake pans from oven.

1:20: Sample cake. Realize it tastes like a chocolate shoe. And not in a good way.

1:22: Throw out cake layers. Wash pans.

1:45: Remember have a box of cake mix in the pantry. Dig it out.

1:50: Mix up second bowl of cake batter.

1:55: Pop cake pans back in the oven.

2:30: Check cakes. Not done.

2:35: Check cakes again, and remove from oven. Put on racks to cool.

4:00: Make chocolate frosting.

4:10: Try to remember if you layer the cake so that the two flat sides are together, or the two lumpy sides. Decide to put the flat sides together. Commence frosting.

4:15: Notice that the cake looks wonky. Decide made mistake when positioning layers. Scrape frosting off of cake, reposition layers so that lumpy sides are together. Commence frosting.

4:20: Admire work . . . then watch in horror as cake splits in half and the layers begin to slide off of plate.

4:21: Stick cake in fridge, hoping that the chilled air will cement the frosting and keep cake from falling apart.

4:22: Take cake out of refrigerator. Wonder if George will notice the cake has split in half.

4:23: The cake splits in half the other way.

4:24: Throw second cake out.

4:26: Call Stuart Fine Foods. Explain cake emergency, and ask bakery attendant if they have any spares. Am so relieved when she says yes, pretend that I don't hear her laughing at me.

4:30: Stuff baby in car seat. Drive to supermarket.

5:00: Arrive home with cake.

5:02: Pour glass of wine. Collapse from exhaustion, while baby attempts to thrust his tattered copy of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? in my hands.

Link | 04 January 2005 at 04:52 PM | | Comments (0)

How Sad Am I?

I just bought the newest issue of US magazine so I could read about Brad and Jennifer's marital troubles.

Link | 03 January 2005 at 05:54 PM | | Comments (0)

Charitable Donations

As everyone knows by now, South Asia was hit hard on December 26 by an earthquake and resulting tsunamis. It's hard to fathom the extent of the loss of lives, injures, and property damage.

Amazon has made it easy to donate to the Red Cross, who is helping in the relief effort, by clicking right through their homepage. Here's a list of other charities aiding in the relief effort.

Every little bit helps, so if you can donate something, please do.

Update: Wow! Sandra Bullock donated one MILLION dollars to the Red Cross. She is such a class act.

Link | 03 January 2005 at 12:45 PM | | Comments (0)

Heard Around the House, Part Eight

Whitney: What do you think the odds are that I can find a Milli Vanilli CD on ebay?

George: I've been wanting one of those ever since it came out they were fakes.

Whitney: Yes! There are a whole bunch up for auction. Did you know that one of those guys died? I don't know if it was Milli or Vanilli, but I saw it on VH-1's "I Love The 80's."

George: It was Rob. Fabrice is still around.

Whitney:

George:

Whitney: You know their names?

George: Yeah, Rob and Fab.

Whitney: You know I'm going to have to blog about this, don't you?

Link | 02 January 2005 at 11:31 PM | | Comments (0)

Fab Five

I started to blog about how much the show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy bugs me. It's a show where they basically take my fantasy -- whisking me off for a day of beauty treatments and clothes shopping, while guys with fabulous taste redecorate my house and do all of my grocery shopping -- and give it to single guys who will never truly appreciate it. The single guys just shrug and look clueless when shown their to-die-for new pads, and then get grumpy when Carson forces them to model their new clothes.

Whereas I would be far more grateful. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if I were on the show, as soon as I was shown my newly redecorated house, I'd fall on the floor and weep with happiness, and then promise the Fab Five I would name my second born Thom Jai Carson Ted Kyan Gaskell. Boy or Girl.

But then I Googled "Queer Eye," and discovered that Bravo is about to launch a new show: Queer Eye for the Straight Girl. So there's hope for me after all. Now my only question is, how do I get on the show???? Pick me, pick me, pick me!