Monthly Archives: July 2009


Zachary, as I have mentioned, is precociously anxious.  So, I bought him the book Is a Worry Worrying You?, a lovely little book designed for the aspiring neurotic.

When we finished reading it, I asked him if he knows anyone who worries a lot, and he pointed to himself.  “But,” he amended, “you worry more than I do.”

As if that were humanly possible.  “Really?  What do I worry about?”

“When you were a child.  Children worry a lot.”

“Benjamin doesn’t worry.” I pointed out his surly but wholly relaxed brother.

“Well,” Zach replied, “that’s because he’s not normal.”

I’m still alive

In case you were wondering. I am fine.  My family is fine.  Los Angeles is fine — if it ever was, that is.  I promise I am coming back some day.

Lilah smiles

Lilah smiles.  That’s what she does.  She also eats with intense concentration.  And crawls with purpose.  And laughs with abandon.  Every now and then, she fusses, but only if there is something that she needs.

What she doesn’t do is make much noise.  We know she can babble, but most of the time, she is quiet, watching her brothers – Big Mouth and Bigger Mouth – as they tear about and talk over each other and ask innumerable questions.  I worry about it, because a child who doesn’t like to talk is an anomaly around here.  But, her hearing checks out and she seems bright enough, so we figure she is just a quiet kid.

Huh.  A quiet Rosenbaum.  The concept may take some getting used to.

She is a delightful baby.  People stop me on the street to tell me she is delicious, and that is about the best word I can think of for a baby with cheeks like peaches.  She complains so little that sometimes we forget she might need something, and I feel guilty because then I’ll play peekaboo or take her for a walk to see the flowers and she is so delighted that I worry the rest of the time she was just sitting there, hoping someone would do something with her.  Probably not, since most of the time she is crawling around, pulling pots out of the cabinets or books off the shelf.

She is easy.  Oh, so easy.  She sleeps well, eats well, and cuddles well.  We just have never had such a low-maintenance baby.

When she is thirteen, I think we are in for it.


I have writer’s malaise.  I am just too apathetic to actually have writer’s block.  I think about blogging and I think, “Bleh.  What more do I have to say?”  I think about articles and say, “Eh.  I can’t think of a single interesting topic.”  I try to write fiction and as far as I can tell it just basically sucks.

I can’t even motivate a good Facebook status update these days.  I am just commenting on other people’s.

I have been here before, and I know it is followed by good stuff.  For right now, however, I am just not in the mood.  I am not writing, and I am not reading blogs much either.  Please don’t take it personally and certainly don’t worry, because I am fine.

I think it comes of not having enough experiences out of my damned house.  I can only write about my family so much, and I don’t get out enough to have more to write about.  So, while I am not writing, I’ll be trying to live a little.

I’ll be around when I have something to say.


As you may recall, I made a pledge back in December to buy no new clothing for one year, with the exceptions of any necessary undergarments, socks, and shoes.  Some of you were looking forward to hearing all about my adventures in thrift shopping, and so you may wonder why I have gone silent on the topic.  Well, there haven’t really been that many adventures…

Faced with the overwhelming task of sorting through rack after rack of fuchsia paisley polyester blouses and rayon sweaters with the size tag cut out while Lilah fussed in the stroller, I did what any sane woman would do: I stopped buying clothing.  I did not want to buy new stuff with my body changing so regularly, yet I get overwhelmed even in the most coyly organized boutique, so the jumble of a thrift shop when I no longer know my size on a day-to-day basis was just too much to wrap my hormone-fuzzy brain around.

I did buy a beautiful brown dress for $35 in January because we had a wedding to attend.  Of course, I also had to purchase Spanx in order to make my post-partum body presentable in anything other than sweatpants, but I figure that an undergarment that sucks in and firms up is an investment well-made.  Not that it really mattered, since I wore Lilah in the Baby Bjorn through the entire reception.  What can I say; I know how to accessorize to accentuate the positive.

Since then, however, I have bought only a couple pairs of jeans that I thankfully no longer fit and a few t-shirts that are long enough to cover the spare tire I am ever-so-attractively sporting.  And I had to buy them in 7.3 seconds, because Lilah, unlike her eldest brother, takes after Mommy and hates to shop.

Well, this last week, I found myself with that rarest of all jewels – an afternoon to myself.  So, I hightailed it over to a thrift shop benefitting a Jewish charity, ready to get a few cute tops to cover the remaining seven pounds that I don’t have the energy to chase away.  It was a good shop with some nice things, crammed into the racks with absolutely no recognizable system, of course.  I selected several items and turned to go to the dressing room.

Whereupon I realized that there was no dressing room.  This is not uncommon among thrift stores, but it is always shocking to me.  These things have been worn and washed; are there really people who buy them on faith that “eh, it looks about right”?

Not to be deterred, I marched over to the mirror in the center of the room.  I managed to get a tank top on under my t-shirt, then removed the t-shirt to see how it fit.  I kept the tank on to try on all the other tops, but skirts were a bit more complicated.  I suspect there is a large family of Hasidic children that got more of an education than their mother would have liked that day.

At any rate, I left with three tops for twenty-three bucks, all of them with the tags still on.  And I learned a valuable lesson that I will pass along to you today: when shopping in thrift stores, wear spandex shorts and a tight fitting tank top.

You can thank me later – right now you have some eco-friendly shopping to do.

And, I repeat: WTF?

By now, perhaps you have heard that Michael Jackson died.  If you have not, I would like to know what rock you have been under and whether there is any room there for me.

Los Angeles, the city that for better or worse I currently call home, is hosting a memorial service for the King of Pop today.  People have been going slightly insane trying to score tickets for this thing, which is expected to draw a hell of a lot more people than will fit into the Staples Center.  There are overflow plans and there are security plans, the second of which will be funded by the City of Los Angeles.

Now, I couldn’t give two craps and a hula hoop about Jackson when he was alive, other than to be sad at what a talented child turned into, but I’ll tell you what I do care about.  The Los Angeles Unified School District.  And the Fire Department.  And the Police Department.  And [insert here any one of numerous public services funded by my tax dollars].

Los Angeles, along with the rest of the State of California, is completely broke.  Bankrupt.  Belly-up, busted, in the red, and gone to the wall.  The city is struggling, cutting back on essential services, and raining pink slips on teachers like confetti.  And we’re paying for the fucking security at a memorial service for a singer?

Once again, Los Angeles proves it knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing.

Here’s another blogger on this topic.

Don’t Ask

I have a post up at LA Moms Blog, and this is one I hope you’ll read and comment on.