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A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

"Mabel's not crazy... she's unusual."

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how, for the past two years, I would get so angry when people would say “things happen for a reason” or “things work out in the end.” My book got rejected; I started making less money. I was bored all of the time. My life felt totally aimless.

Not to be a fucking annoying cliche, but I have to say, these past few weeks, I’ve started to see a logic to the sorts of phrases I was beginning to suspect the “corporate overlords” were using on people to convince them to keep buying things rather than kill themselves.

Does that sentence make sense grammatically? My baby is screaming. 

In any case, as much as I would love to be a milliona ire best selling author who people call the “female Anthony Bourdain,” I’m happy I’m not that successful right now because it has allowed me to be at home with Cleo. It also forced me to really take stock of my life, and be happy with what I have. The one-bedroom I have with no modern amenities and a miniature refrigerator. 

Having Cleo gives me a purpose I couldn’t find on my own, with all of the freedom and time in the world. I like the limits to my schedule. I love having to feed her because it forces me to think about how I feed myself. I love our family bedroom where at night, during stretches of time, there are five creatures matching each other’s breathing. 

I am a person who needs limits to be happy, I’ve realized, and who isn’t? I have goals every day. I have to get Cleo to nap three times. I have to feed her three healthy meals. I have to walk 10,000 steps. I have to walk the dog twice. I have to shop for food, and make dinner. In between, and in the evenings, are spells of nothingness, and those spells of nothingness are way easier to fill than when my days were spells of nothingness.

What a sappy fucking post, but whatever. I think I wanted to write about how I am obsessed with the Middle Eastern market Sahadi’s, but that didn’t happen. It’s lunchtime in our house, so I must depart from my computer.


I was lucky to exclusively be able to publish some photographs from Massimo Vitali’s latest series, Disturbed Coastal Systems, on my Forbes blog. Taken in locations as diverse as Coney Island, New York, Puglia, Italy, and Skogar, Iceland, Disturbed Coastal Systems will be on display at Benrubi Gallery in Chelsea from April 20 – June 17, 2017.

CHECK IT.


I’m interview Shep from Southern Charm this morning, and because I don’t have childcare yet, I asked my dad to watch Cleo because his office is right near 30 Rock. I feel like an alien with a stroller in midtown in the morning. I’m nervous. But the light keeps on changing in that way light only changes amongst skyscrapers. A sunny day suddenly turns impending rain. Morning is dusk. I don’t know where to get coffee because the lines are so long, and I feel close to what it is like to be a certain kind of New Yorker again. (at New York, New York)


I haven’t felt the need to blog lately, which is weird. Whenever I do feel the urge, I want to make fun of my poor husband, who really needs someone to change his diaper and rub his head while he naps. Because my husband is a baby.

I’ll explain. Yesterday afternoon, we got home from a long walk as a family. We’re trying to give Cleo three meals a day, so she was sitting in her high chair. I cut myself up some vegetables – cucumbers and pepp ers – because I’m low on cash, and determined to eat absolutely everything I bought at Whole Foods last Monday. 

Five minutes later, I looked down at my hands, and realized that one was feeding the baby her ricotta cheese, and the other was feeding my husband a cucumber dipped in hummus. They both sat expectantly with their mouths open.

“Why can’t you give me all of the attention when I get home from work?” Caleb asked me yesterday in the car. I was making a concerted effort not to look at my phone because if I did, I knew he would notice, and get mad.

“Because when you get home is the only time I have to work or rest in the entire day,” I said.

“But I don’t get why you’re on your phone.”

“Because for me, relaxing is looking at Kim Kardashian’s Instagram while I try to find patches of dry skin on my scalp.”

“You should just be paying attention to me because I’m your husband,” he said.

“How about I pay attention to you every other day,” I said. “One day, I’m all yours, the next, I can do whatever I want.”

“I want every day,” he demanded.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. 

I know I’m supposed to like “demand him to be an equal partner,” but honestly, it’s too exhausting. I think my Nana was on to something when she said, “Every man just wants to be treated like a little baby ba ba ba.”

I know not all men are like Caleb, and moreover, we make each other laugh. I would like to switch topics and say that if you are l ooking for a science fiction/fantasy novel, I just read “The Fifth Season” by NK Jemisin. You know how sometimes a book has some chapters from the author’s next book so that you get excited to buy it? The end of “The Fifth Season” had three chapters from all different fantasy storylines. I don’t know, NK Jemisin might be manic. 

Anyway, “The Fifth Season” imagines a world where there are normal people, and there are people who can control rocks with their minds. I’m not fucking with you. The people who can control rocks with their minds are very powerful BUT THEY ARE ENSLAVED BY BUREAUCRACY. BUT OH SHIT THE WORLD IS ENDING AND THESE MOTHERFUCKERS ARE GOING TO SAVE IT BY ACCESSING THE POWER IN THE ROCKS. 

NK Jemisin is a black woman, which shouldn’t matter, but “The Fifth Element” is sort of like slavery redux except that instead of black people being slaves, it’s peo ple who can cause boilbugs to leave their homes to attack enemies. 

I don’t know, I thought it was good, but too character driven. Like at least 80% of the characters are actually people NK Jemisin is friends with in real life, only in the book,they’re wearing long robes and quelling earthquakes. The first one won the Hugo Award, and I read the second one too, called “The Broken Obelisk.” I wish I could reveal what the books is actually about but it will ruin it, so I won’t.

I would read it. I did read it. Do you have any other fantasy books to recommend to me. This one was recommended by a friend who always has the best suggestions but she is currently tapped out. 

Caleb is fortunately working with his headphones on, I think I’m safe to check out the Daily Mail.

*All of the pictures in this post are from a Google image search of “earthquake controllers”

There is a shop in Brooklyn where all the cool girls seemingly shop, and it is called Bird.

There are locations in Cobble Hill, Fort Greene, Williamsburg, Park Slope, and now, Los Angeles.

I almost never went in there until I met Caleb, who will not rest in December until he goes into credit card debt buying me Christmas presents.

This year, in an attempt to appease him, I asked him to buy me a pair of No. 6 clogs that I saw in the window of Bird. They cost $395, and they are even uglier than Uggs, which I think is an accomplishment.

I wanted the black pair but they only had tan. I agonized for a full week after openi ng them on Christmas day because I desperately wanted to return them.

People who know me well know that buying things, especially expensive things, makes me so anxious that I am usually not able to sleep once they are in my possession until they are returned. If they can’t be returned for cash, I try to find the most practical thing to replace them with – a pair of comfortable shoes, a coat I’ll wear every day, a pair of jeans that fits me perfectly.

The guilt over spending money stems from being raised by my father, who once went apoplectic when I spent all of the money my Grandma had given me for Christmas — $50 —on a lambswool sweater on sale at J.Crew. You best be sure I wore th at sweater every day for months afterwards even though it itched terribly and made me look like a block of wood covered in a tea cozy. I was in eighth grade. 

I was super relieved when the No. 6 shearling boots ripped down the back the second time I wore them– pieces of shit – because I was able to return them to Bird. The problem was that they don’t give money back; they only issue store credit. I was left with a $395 credit at a store where they sell $395 sweatshirts.

Caleb says that if he ever wants to keep me occupied for weeks so that he can embezzle money, or get plastic surgery to plump up his buttocks, or start a new family with a Chinese woman, he will just buy me something really expensive I don’t really need, and make sure that it can only get returned for store credit.

Because what happened when I got the store credit at Bird was that I began going into the store every few days, buying something so that the saleswomen wouldn’t judge me, and then torturing myself for days until my self disgust trumped my embarrassment at going back to return whatever I had bought. 

In truth, “cool girl” clothes don’t look good on me. I bought a pair of Frame denim “Le Crop” boot leg jeans that are all the rage this season. 

Celebrities wear them, I think.

Celebrities look like they feel chic and French while wearing them.

They make me feel like a geologist who keeps a bag of almonds in a ziplock bag in her backpack in case she gets hungry while inspecting the water table on a freeway in Southern California.

Gallery going. (at The Invisible Dog Art Center)


Back in the day, I would have gotten in trouble for writing this about Doug Wheeler’s installation at the Guggenheim. Now, no one gives a shit what I say. 

I quickly suspected that there was nothing more to the room than what it presented in the moment we entered it. A narrow ramp that extended in the center, and served as a platform over a grid of white pyramids. The pyramids were lit grayish white. The walls o f the gallery were grayish-white. The room smelled of fresh paint. The sea of pyramids resembled both a glacier at dusk, and what I imagined the ice sheet on the planet Gethen looked like inUrsula K L Guin’s science fiction novel The Left Hand of Darkness. Resembled, but did not replicate. The room was noticeably small. It was clear where the field of pyramids hit a wall, and ended. The installation felt empty, like it needed to be activated by a light show, or at the very least, a weed brownie, to hold my attention for the allotted twenty minutes.

Click here to read the rest of my review for Forbes. 

I interviewed fantastic Cig Harvey on the phone today. I told her that my baby might fuss, and fuss the baby did, as I tried to remember what the fuck I wanted to ask her about her new body of work. Beneath the purview of my computer’s camera, I nursed Cleo quiet. Cig is a mother too, so she was understanding.

She told me about Derek Jarman’s Chroma, which now I want to read. I think this might be an image from something else entirely, but it came up when I did a Google search, and I liked it, so whatever.

Damn, it is seriously hard to think these days, and I like that because I can’t ruminate over anything.


On the way to yoga class tonight, I thought about how happy I have been of late, but how reluctant I am to talk about it. I’m not superstitious, but I know from experience that life goes up and down, and more so do my moods. So just as soon as I say I’m happy I’ll be depressed again, and I don’t want that, I just want to enjoy it.

Before yoga, I lay on my mat and read the first part of the profile of Catherine Opie by Ariel Levy. Catherine Opie, in the opening paragraphs, talked about the S&M scene in LA being appealing to her because it was like a community. I thought about how being a mother has allowed me to form a community, and how basic I am. But I grew up with a very dysfunctional family, and I don’t feel any guilt about wanting to be totally mainstream. Then I thought for a while how when you grow up with a lot of dysfunction, with forms of abuse and mental illness, how ordinary things like ordering a soda with your meal can feel totally subversive, and that being normal is actually the most rebellious and healthy way you can turn out. I was taught my whole life that I was wrong for having basic, ordinary needs like wanting to watch television, and I was taught by society that to want to be a mother was a defeat and a failure and a shame.

I d on’t know what I’m saying here, but I love being a mother. I think it’s important to say that because I never heard it before I became one. I love being a mother. 

During yoga, I thought of Cleo, and the way she looked at me when I kissed her goodnight, all snotty and flushed from a fever she’s been running for a few days now. I thought of how we got home this afternoon, and what a relief it was to be home. To be in the space that I’ve created with Caleb, where we can do anything we want. We ordered dinner at 4pm, and watched television while Cleo played on the floor in front of us. 

I guess I thought my family would be like the families I have always known. My family was dysfunctional, and because that was what I knew, I was drawn to dysfunctional people. That’s ok; I’m proud that I love dysfunction because fucked up people are the most in need of love. But I was often very lonely. And now I’m not so lonely anymore. 

I guess there is a serious relief in knowing that I can enjoy this. This being motherhood. That just because I am drawn to dysfunction doesn’t mean that I am dysfunctional myself, at least not in this respect, in respect to my own family. I don’t feel like I gave up anything; I feel like I gained so much. What is a night of drinking to this? Now, there’s Cleo in the bed to look forward to, and tomorrow morning, breakfast together. And later, Friday night movies, and bedtimes, and snuggling, and all the things that used to terrify me because I figured they’d be so boring.

They’re not boring at all because they’re with the ones I love. I love being a mother

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:

Every time I’ve tried to fish for compliments on GChat this week, the guy that I’m targeting tells me he is busy with his Fantasy Football Draft.

me: do you think that I look good with bangs?

guy: one sec, fantasy football draft

Even the guys I know that don’t like sports get involved with this shit. I’m trying to come up with the female equivalent, but I’m kind of at a loss. 

It would be an understatement to say that I like fútbol more th an I like football (look at that Spanish/English wordplay!). Basically the only reason why I even tolerate football is because of Friday Night Lights, which in its first season was one of the top 5 TV shows of all time.

If only ever man were more like Coach Taylor.

(Daddy?)

Friday Night Lights taught me a lot about the game itself, the playbooks and the 2nd QBs and thrill of winning. I even learned some player positions.

The only ones that I remember are Quarterback and tight end, for obvious reasons.

As to not be left out the fantasy football thing, considering I’m so into sports and all, I’m going to do my own Fantasy Football League. To copycat myself during the World Cup, I’m going to call it:

Fantasy Football League for Women (Household Chores Edition)

Which means that I’m going to chose a player every day for the next week, and decide which household chore I’d like him to do for me. That’s way better than imagining him winning a game on the field.

My first pick is… dun dun dun…

Kyle Boller, Quarterback for the Oakland Raiders.

And here’s the household chore that I would give him: Taking out the garbage.

Because as hot as Kyle Boller looks in some of his publicity photos, ultimately he seems like the type of guy who is good at taking orders and carrying heavy loads. But not the type of guy you’d want doing your laundry, because he’d probably mix your whites with your colors, even though you explained the difference to him five times, and you’d have to end up wearing pink underwear for the rest of your life.

Guys! My blog turns 7 today. I can’t believe. I can believe it. It is the only thing of value I’ve done besides keep myself alive, marry my husband, and have a baby. Here’s a post from the first year. God, I love to write this stupid stuff.

(Source: )

I’ve been lucky enough to get a lot of work these past few weeks. I do my work at night when Cleo goes to bed. Some of my mom friends are like, “I don’t know how you work after taking care of the baby.” But honestly, working is fucking so much easier. Like I can eat while I work. And I can sit up straight. And I know what my computer wants. It doesn’t want anything because it’s a computer, fool!

Anyway, I am fucking tired. Like, what I would not give to take to slightly overdose on Xanax and sleep until Sunday, you do not know. Maybe my firstborn child tho. 

I used to have lots of things to blog about, but now my days are mostly the same. I am mostly racing around trying not to mentally freak out about being at home with a small child. I am also in love. I used to also blog about my feelings, but now I talk about my feelings in person with my new friends. One thing I do not talk about with my friends is the tricks that Cleo can and cannot do for two reasons:

1. I do not want to compete with them.

2. I am secretly harboring hopes that Cleo will reach all of her developmental milestones first.

The truth is that she has already missed a number of them. Unlike her friend Oliver, who has been chasing his cat around the house since he was five months old, the closest Cleo has ever come to moving is shuffling along the floor on her back in a spasmodic rendition of the bridge pose.

< p>My baby is almost seven months old, and she is not a baby genius crawler.

You may be saying to yourself, no baby crawls at seven months old, and that is just not true. Just yesterday, Cleo and I went to see the film Beauty and the Beast at the Alamo Drafthouse. There, we encountered a mother’s group from Fort Greene. I immediately hated them. Who did those bitches think they were, copying us mothers in the BoCoCa area. Also, they were talking about taking their babies to baby modeling casting calls, and in all honesty, their babies were merely normal looking.

The film was interrupted right by the end for a fire drill. The audience of moms and babies was left sitting for a full forty minutes until someone came in to announce it would never come back on. “But what happens?” no one screamed because everyone knows what happens in every Disney movie unless they have cerebral palsy. And even then, who knows what people with cerebral palsy know?

“Is Cleo crawling yet?” asked one mom who approached me.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Oh really, because Lucifer* is,” she said. And as she said it, a baby started moving across the floor at a breakneck and absolutely textbook crawl. When he reached the woman, he grabbed her legs, and pulled himself to the standing position. My mouth literally dropped. Cleo looked at the androgynous teething toy in her hand, and with a low moan, banged it in the air as if she were saluting Kim Jong Un. 

*Lucifer is a name I made up.

“When was Lucifer born?” I asked.

“August 12,” the woman said.

“Cleo,” I told her o n the walk home. “You have two fucking weeks to get crawling or else it’s official, you’re not a baby genius who is going to be put in special schools.”

That evening, I tried to place some toys just beyond her grasp, and she just sat there. “I don’t read to you enough,” I told her.

Anyway, I need to learn how not to translate my competitiveness to my child’s behavior. Does anyone have suggestions? I know this is an age old question, but I really, really don’t want to fuck her up.

I had a lot of fun going to see a screening of Factory Girl at NYLO, a hotel on the Upper West Side. Not least of all because no one was touching me, and there were alcoholic beverages. The screenings are open to the public and run through August. They are fun for a date night, or for a solo night outing. 

Read more about it on my FORBES BLOG.

I’m writing this post while drinking a glass of Nebbiolo D’Alba while a bunch of roast vegetables and polenta are roasting in the oven. I don’t know what happened when I gave birth, but I became like a regular fucking Betty Crocker. I cook dinner almost every night now, and the dinner is more than edible. All except for the corned beef and cabbage I made on St. Patrick’s Day, which was tasteless, not because of me, but because my ancestors apparently had no tastebuds. Or no food. LOL. They were starving, those poor peat burning motherfuckers. 

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Anyway, I was not planning on making Cleo Anne’s food. Before I began giving her food at five months, I got extremely stressed about it. I couldn’t even fathom what to make her. I was like, “Fuck it, I’m buying pouches and jars from the health food store or else I’ll like never feed her at all.” The jars and pouches are organic. They tell you what age is appropriate. It goes without saying that I have lifelong food issues. I’m not saying that I blame my mother, but I will say that she keeps an entire refrigerator worth of frozen watermelon which she eats throughout the day out of a baby food bowl. 

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Jars and pouches are heavily frowned upon in the Brooklyn mothering community in which I am heavily and happily entrenched. Many women make their own baby food. A number of mothers are into something called “baby led weaning,” which, from what I can tell, means giving babies like hunks of vegetables you steam on the oven (?). Before last month, I literally did not know how to cook vegetables. The idea behind baby led weaning is that babies learn how to feed themselves; moreover, they are disabused of the notion that nutrients come in easy to digest purees that you can suck out of a pouch like a fruit flavored boobie. A lot of mothers are very concerned that their actions early on will lead to their children being picky eaters. Unlike children around the world, who apparently eat fucking everything. ALTERNATELY who eat whatever is around because otherwise, they would starve.

I’m happy Cleo is a poor sleeper because it taught me that despite my best efforts, my baby will just be who she is, perfect at everything or not. Maybe she’ll be a picky eater; maybe she won’t be. 

Anyway, babies get all of their nutrients from breastfeeding until they turn a year or something. So whatever you give them now is technically just for taste. I want Cleo to taste everything that is safe for her to consume. Do you know how much work it is to fucking boil and puree a bunch of blueberries, cherries, and pears, which alternately, I can buy already pre-combined in a pouch for $1.29? Those pouches taste good, son. Like, better than any produce you’re going to buy in the middle of fucking winter in one of the largest urban metropolises in the world. 

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Cleo loves to eat, and she eats any pouch or jar I give her, including a disgusting fucking turkey dinner one I bought at Whole Foods. She also loves cornichons, banana, that Israeli peanut butter snack called Bamba, whole Greek yogurt, and avocado. I give her a taste of everything I eat as long as it doesn’t have honey in it. She’s been eating “solids” for almost seven weeks now. Mealtime is playtime for her, and time for me to catch up on my television shows.

I had let go of all of my guilt about not making her food until I met a woman at a play date earlier this week. She said to me, “I bought this Baby Foodie book, and it has this recipe for blueberries with cinnamon and pink Himalyan sea salt. It’s so delicious, I put it on my yogurt in the morning.”

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I was like, “I want blueberries with salt in my yogurt!” I was also like, “I’m a lesser mother I give my baby food that’s been on the shelf of a grocery store in a jar.” That motivated me to buy the Baby Foodie book, which is actually called Little Foodie, on Amazon. I buy whatever I want on Amazon now because I use Caleb’s credit card as my primary method of payment.

The book came. It’s fantastic. The recipes are fun and easy. I spent all of the time I should have been working this weekend making purees for Cleo that I’ll probably never bother to defrost. I don’t know how to defrost things. Forget about safely freezing them LOL! I made sweet potato with coconut milk and cardamon. I made the Himalyan salt blueberries. I made chicken thighs with carrots, rosemary, and butter. 

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I made all of this into beautiful purees with the immersion blender that Caleb, desperate to escape from the house, bought for me at a store on Atlantic Avenue on Saturday.

Cleo liked the homemade shit as much as she likes anything, which is a lot. I also liked the food, and would eat it myself. I would also feed it to our dog Frankie. All of this to say that if you’re looking for some inspiration for things to make for your baby, the book is a good start. I like our method. The “do everything” method. Cleo shat almost constantly for the first two weeks of it, but now she’s totally fine!

God, these roast vegetables are taking forever to cook. I just want the polenta with butter and parmesan, let’s be honet.

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