H&M: Mommy and me shopping

Has your child ever projectile vomited in the car?

If you said, "Yaaaaaassssss, sister, testify, it is straight traumatizing, almost as bad as birthin' that baby!" then you know I was in zero rush to get V in the car after a big eggslut of a breakfast.

(Background: Ever since we turned Mini Diabolina's car seat forward, she has developed motion sickness. So now I live in fear of defcon 5 vomit in every nook and cranny of her person, her car seat and my back seat.)

an hour before this photo, she projectile vomited for the first time. in the car. we locked eyes in the rear view mirror as it happened, hers silently demanding to know wtf. being a mom is no joke. #bath #chickensoup #frozen #fabreze #bakingpowder #vinegar #hose #sendwine #mom life

A post shared by Diabolina (@cheeriosandchanel) on Dec 15, 2016 at 4:43pm PST

Instead of our planned meteorite exhibit (lord help us, she's a space camp nerd), I convinced Ms. VV that we could find an outfit for her to match her new Boo doll (from Monsters Inc. for the Pixar uninitiated). And she agreed because fashion, duh.





As soon as she saw the new Beverly Center lounges, she was in heaven.  "Let's just hang here, mama!" I let her roll around on everything as if she was rolling at a 90s rave. Again, it's lovely, Bev Cen, but really all the disruption for this?




Eventually we moved on but were stopped dead in our tracks by the siren call of Dolce & Gabbana.




The color!



The mixed prints!



The styling.

Think of warm summer days and this colourful majolica dress with added leopard prints for a wilder touch. Complete with scooped neck, short sleeves, and flared skirt, get this A-line sun dress on the online store. Link in bio. #DGWomen

A post shared by Dolce & Gabbana (@dolcegabbana) on Jan 27, 2018 at 1:45am PST

Vivian begged to go in the store. Who is this kid???  MY kid, that's who.  It must be in our Italian blood, man, this love of the playful, the ornate, the overtly feminine.

But I wasn't in the mood to paw beautiful things that remind me of a former life; one when I had fabulous occasion to wear fabulous things. Plus the only thing worse than your child throwing up in your car, would be your child farting in Dolce & Gabbana. And I had a sense she was itching to let one rip after all that OJ at eggslut.

Crestfallen, she asked what store we could go in. I made her read me the name on the window: H&M.  It's become a go-to for Vivian's closet, especially summer dresses and winter sweaters. Lately, I will occasionally score a $10 sweatshirt there that makes me feel athleisure chic. Plus, I won't mind if it gets ruined with slime or paint or general kid-ness. Such is my sartorial life now. Sigh.



I was struck with how much color was in store post-holidays. Also bold winter florals galore. Very D&G.






A dash of Diane Von Furstenberg








Crossed with Gucci garish.






The darker florals were probably the most work wearable.





I don't normally photograph clothing in stores anymore.



So Vivian was confused and started jumping into shots.

Ah to be narcissistically young again. 

Suddenly, we were pointing out our favorite pieces to each other - she is all about "LOOK AT ME COLOR" - and having the cutest time browsing, like real girlfriends, not master (her) and servant (me). Yay for 3.5!!!



 I found her this Monster's Inc coat. Tres Sully.




She spotted the ideal Jack Skellington pants. "We HAVE to tell, Uncle Jason!" That's Sable Crow who loves The Nightmare Before Christmas just like her, btw.  



We both squealed when we saw this coat. Elmo realness, anyone???



But my favorite prints were these Valentine's Day dreams.



I love the idea of pajama dressing...since 2011, remember??





It never quite works on me (too thick waisted? too short? too not white?). But boy do I fantasize about being a turbaned mom that DGAF and looks bedroom chic at the library, Target and dance class.



Ideally with THOSE Gucci slides



And a Clare V pouch (Side note: How is it that some toddler mothers don't need to carry huge bags? Why am I the only sherpa whose purse has turned into a dumpster full of shit for my kid?)

Headed over to the kids section to stave off the impulse pajama buy I felt brewing.  

Not as many florals as I'd expected but some real cuties

Not that she needs clothes right now. So I focused on accessories. Saw this adorable V day headband. Not five minutes later, Vivian spotted it and said, "I need this AND I want it." Me: I'm so proud of you.


























This child is literally me. She looks exactly like I me at that age (minus Daddy's big lips). We have the same taste in food and fashion.  She wears cool clothes with such ease. She knows exactly what she likes. She is hilarious.

I let her go cray in the sale section cuz HER FACE. Also she is chic on a budget.

Faux fur snood: $3
Pom pom clips: $.50
Headband: $4
Purse: $3

 

The handbag she chose was giving me Cult Gaia vibes. Obsessed. Want. Don't need. But need.








Clearly Vivian is the heir apparent to Da Fashionista title. Maybe some V-logging until she learns to type? Will definitely need this little number.




xoxo

egglsut at Beverly Center

I've always been one to keep it real. And for realz: motherhood has sucked the foodie and fashion fun out of my life. 100%.

To back up, I've been a stay at home mom now for over TWO years. Words I never imagined typing, much less living. I've been doing some consulting during that time. But, for all intents and purposes, I've been focused on raising my toddler, magical brilliant gorgeous unicorn that she is.



As any new-ish mama can tell you, it's been the best of times, it's been the worst of times. I've obviously adored getting to know my daughter, being there for every single milestone, growing into motherhood.



And yet it's been disorienting and isolating in ways I didn't expect. Your child's schedule becomes your schedule. Her friends' parents become your friends by default. Your life isn't your own anymore. You're always tired and never well-groomed.

Plus, I actually miss work; the identity intertwined with it, being part of a team, contributing financially to our family. Most of all, I miss writing. For nearly 15 years, I was gainfully employed as a writer. What a goddamn lucky bitch.

So, despite the true gift that this time with my child has been, I've felt lost, not myself, unsure. I don't know if it's the new year, or the fact that she turned 3 and a half last week (to much fanfare!), but I've been feeling change in the air. Like a piece of myself that's been missing is about to make a return.

And on Friday, I realized what it might be: this blog, writing, chronicling things that are meaningful to ME, no matter how small.

V and I had one of those perfect meandering agenda-free mornings. I was really present. And as I snapped dozens of photos per usual, I saw this blog post in my mind's eye. Just like I did when I used to blog daily.



Back then, I used to find the "hook" or "story" of the day, every day, and actually SEE the blog post in my head before I wrote it and laid it out. It was second nature to me back in the day. But I hadn't had that creative process happen in my head in a loooooong time so it felt amazing. I felt like me again. That felt good.

So here goes. Just a little flexing of an old muscle starring the new piggie fashionista in town, MY BABY. I hope I can keep "seeing" the story of our days together.

Eggsluts R Us

Embarrassing confession: until Friday, I was an egg slut that had never been to eggslut.

In my defense, when it opened in 2011, I wasn't going downtown during the day often. Plus I didn't "do lines" (read: I thought/think I'm famous.)

When it opened in Glendale a year ago, I sooooo wanted to be a slut for eggs but ugh Vivian. She eats everything EXCEPT sandwiches. FML. No point dealing with a two year old at a restaurant where she very vocally denounces the house specialty.

Fast forward to last week, when I saw eggslut was opening at the Beverly Center. So close to us, so no excuse. I decided I was going on opening day, tiny human in tow, dammit.

But Friday came and my tiny overlord woke up WOKE, uninterested in trying anything new.  Ugh to toddlers who think their mothers are trying to poison them, amirite? I convinced her that bacon, her ride or die in life, would be available and she begrudgingly relented.

We got to the Beverly Center and OMYGOD the parking was an ordeal with the construction! Was there a few months ago and it wasn't so bad. I immediately regretted my decision to do me and started spiraling into plans b, c and d while making the problem into fun (wheeeeee, this circling is like a ride at Disneyland!!!).  Like any MacGyver mother can.

After a good 10 minutes, we finally found a spot. Pro tip: Look for the elevators on the 5th floor since most of the La Cienega escalators are inoperable and if you're like me, creepy parking garage stairs are a NOPE. Even better pro tip: walk or park on the street until all the construction is over.

Said elevators did have a new infinity room at the Broad vibe. Cool. I don't know if it's hundreds-of-millions-of-dollars-for-the-remodel-cool but it makes for a cute pic. Thanks, Bev Cen.



Inside eggslut, it was that sleek woodsy trendy coffee shop in San Francisco vibe. You know the one, where everyone is in on the joke except you vibe? Where the millennial employee out of central casting acts fairly exasperated if it's your first time there and you have to look at a menu?  Like Philz Coffee?

Anyway, there was only a slight line in front of us (purr-fect!) but had to wait for one of the only three normal tables to open up (hello, anxiety and plans b, c, and d again). Otherwise my tiny person would have for sure free-fallen off the dozens of high stools available (#nobueno and #parentproblems).

Her order:

BACON, EGG & CHEESE

hardwood smoked bacon, cage-free over medium egg, cheddar cheese and chipotle ketchup in a warm brioche bun

For mama:

FAIRFAX

cage-free soft scrambled eggs and chives, cheddar cheese, caramelized onions and sriracha mayo in a warm brioche bun

Verdict: My slutty sandwich was perfection.

The soft eggs with chives were all kids of delicate and creamy. The spice was slight, not overwhelming; my mini me even had some.  However, it was VERY rich with the brioche. Might opt for the arugula instead of the bun next time. Who am I? An over 40 mother looking to lose 15 pounds that's who.

Hers was basic bitch i.e. perfect for a toddler. She hovered it, one element at a time, never as a sandwich, god forbid. She is a carboholic and the bun was even a bit much for her. Coffee and OJ were better than expected, btw.

Ideal grab and go place, very NYC. ( p.s. God do I miss New York.) Perfect for the Cedars crowd just across the street. Wish I had had that option after giving birth to this 8 lb 12 oz beauty - it would have hit the spot in my broken, bloated body.



At one point, she said dreamily, "Let's come here every day, mama." Egg slut success story right there!



As we were leaving, I plotted our next stop on the new Beverly Center pigging train:
Michael Mina's Cal Mare.



Won't be a hard sell. She loves her some "pancy pish."




PART TWO OF MORNING UP NEXT
Shopping at H&M, dreaming of Dolce & Gabbana

We are all immigrants

I am going insane.

It started when the Orange Troll won the election and hit a breaking point yesterday when I read this story about an immigrant with a brain tumor detained by immigration.

Followed by this one about Obama protection of transgender kids' rights being revoked. 

Both felt like an attack on who I am personally: the child of an immigrant who is now a mother and has tried to be a champion of LGBTQ youth.

I cried so much with my mother this morning. And I knew I had to write today. And so I came here to this space I created for myself almost ten years ago to process it, share and create something out of all this anger and fear I am feeling.  So here goes:

My mother came to this country legally in 1976, fleeing a country beginning to fall to what would turn out to be the longest and  bloodiest civil war in the Western Hemisphere. She was pregnant with me.

When she was deciding whether to leave – her country, her family, the father of her child, her language, her education, everything she had ever known – her paternal grandfather encouraged her. He said soon there would be nothing left for her, no real opportunity for her child or any child in Guatemala. Even though he knew he would never see her again or meet his great-grandchild, he said he'd never forgive himself if he didn't encourage her to go to the US and not look back.

It's what my mother did. She was 28.

Every day of my life since I could understand, I've felt grateful for that decision. I have visited Guatemala. They have been gut wrenching trips. It is a devastatingly beautiful country, irrevocably  devastated by political greed, violence, racism and foreign influences (sound familiar?)  It is a country where even educated, hard-working people like my family struggle to find stable careers and real security, forget about opportunity.

It has become what I once heard it called on NPR: "a failed state." The words felt like a dagger through my twentysomething chest. What happens to the people that remain in a failed state? Their hopes, their dreams?

In the 80s, my mother's visa expired.  When I was just a little older than my daughter is today, my mother witnessed the Regan-era immigration raids happening left and right around her in L.A.



By some miracle but more likely because of her Ladino appearance, she was never "caught." Never deported, ripped away from her child and sent back to the crumbling country she came from. She remembers seeing immigration officials come into stores and stop buses and descend on schools  and start asking brown faces for identification. She saw good people get shackled like criminals.  She doesn't know how but she slipped away every time.

She lived in fear for a couple of years, many Latinos did, many Latinos have. She took the first opportunity she got to become a permanent resident. She remained one for nearly 30 years.

In that time, she married and buried my stepfather, the great love of her life, a  self-made businessman who himself was the child of German immigrants fleeing the Nazis. Her only daughter graduated from high school then college then graduate school and became an independent some would even say successful professional. My mother worked hard, managed her money well, made more, paid off her home, bought a rental property, then another one.

Along the way she helped (conservatively) hundreds of other immigrants, get their footing in this country, paying her karmic luck forward. Since I was little, I can remember her counseling, loaning money, letting people sleep on a couch, helping find people jobs. That is who my mother is. She embodies the American dream.

But something happened after 9/11. I saw her fear return. She saw things during the Bush era that made her afraid that because she wasn't born in the US and wasn't a citizen, the life she had built could be ripped away from her. In October of 2008, she became an American citizen. The next month, she voted for the first time, for the first black president of the United States.

The following month, she had her second MRI after discovering she had a brain tumor. It showed the brain tumor was not growing. And tests continued to confirm that until two years later when it was growing. She had surgery to remove it, it was successful and my mother lived to see and love her granddaughter four years later.




I don't know Sara from El Salvador who now lives in Texas, has a brain tumor and was detained by immigration in the hospital. But I do know by a few twists of fate she could be my mother. I know every immigrant has a story. I know most immigrants are hard working, tax paying, morally rich people. I know this because of my personal experience and because this great country was built by them. I know this is an assault on who we are as a COUNTRY OF IMMIGRANTS.

I also know that what Trump is doing to the transgender community is a disgrace. I know that pandering to religious hatemongers when your approval ratings are the lowest in history at the expense of children in need of protection is disgraceful. I know my child could be transgender. I know when you become a mother, a real mother, EVERY CHILD becomes your child.




I know if you roll in the mud you are a pig and I know when they get fat enough, pigs get slaughtered. I know his day is coming but the damage he is creating and being allowed to create by a Republican majority and cowardly Democrats is a disgrace.

And I would ask all of you who are not directly affected by the bullshit currently being perpetrated to STAND UP, SPEAK OUT, BE OUTRAGED for all of us who are affected.  What is happening is an affront to who we are as Americans. This isn't about some "other," this is about all of us.

And remember: Becoming a failed state is not outside the realm of possibility for the US.



More immigrant crisis reading

http://www.cnn.com/2017/02/23/us/california-immigrant-safe-houses/index.html

https://www.fastcoexist.com/3068357/this-app-warns-undocumented-immigrants-when-raids-are-coming

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2013/05/15/north-carolina-needed-6500-farm-workers-only-7-americans-stuck-it-out

More LGBTQ crisis reading

http://www.hrc.org/blog/disgraceful-the-trump-administration-puts-transgender-kids-at-risk

http://www.thetrevorproject.org/blog/entry/trump-administration-title-ix-guidance-withdrawal-is-a-danger-to-the-mental


https://www.facebook.com/amightygirl/photos/a.360833590619627.72897.316489315054055/1259113597458284/?type=3&theater



And the fashion connection












xoxo