Jessica Gottlieb

It’s a virtue, so they say.
I’m cleaning things up here and I’ll be adding a bunch of new pages and buttons and links for y’all to enjoy.

So, please, wait for me?

First off, I’d like to welcome all the SITS girls. If you don’t know what SITS is, you should, go read about them over there. They’re cute and they’re saucy and they understand the import of women joining together.

I digress.

When I run into girlfriends about town then say to me, “I read your blog, who is Alexander?” “My son.” I say. They stare at me blankly, puzzled.

Despite the fact that this blog is just a few months old, I am not new to the realm of Mommy Blogging. There are many reasons to disguise your children, and they vary with age. Read the rest of this entry »

Automakers went to DC and asked for money. The government said, “no, you’ve been irresponsible. File bankruptcy and restructure.”

That same day.

My daughter Jane asked me for money for iTunes. “Take it from your allowance jar.” I told her. “It’s empty.” She replied. “I’m sorry, you’ll need to save more next week.”

Time passes
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Last night I was lucky enough to attend the Microsoft BizSpark party in LA.

I did not win the gaming console *le sigh* my children are the last two in the developed world who have been denied gaming systems. Eh, the Mac Laptops my mother showers them with will have to make due.

I’m giving you a very brief recap because I’ve got a tennis match in 45 minutes I’m really busy today and I’m going to the premiere of Marley and Me this evening. Yari, I’m all about Team Anniston (don’t worry, Yari gets it).

Moving along:

Picked up Lolita and headed to Hollywood for the BizSpark Party. In the car she’s texting someone and I’m like, “who are you texting?”

“Oh just my dumb friend who is so shy that he can’t walk in until we get there.”

“Who is he? Do I know him?”

“No, he’s just a blogger, he goes by the name of …

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There’s some strangeness this time of year, my husband leaves for work a few minutes later because traffic is light. That means we have this weird crossover in the morning, where he’s typically he’s been gone and I’m alone to make beds and tidy the bedrooms.

So there’s this moment where we both really want to enjoy the silence of the morning, but it’s clear that neither of us want the other to feel ignored. I say something wifely about him looking great nekkid and he examines the ceiling. Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re looking for up there but you haven’t found it in the last 13 years. Today won’t be the day.

Read the rest of this entry »

I went to a Wii Fit party today at Bliss. I love Bliss and the oxygen facial was ridiculous and amazing at the same time, I owe y’all a post.

I liked the Wii Fit, heck, I like video games, who doesn’t?

I also like Twinkies, Cinabons, fried chicken and Smoked Gouda; but those aren’t staples in my house. The kids want a Wii, my husband wants a Play Station with a blu ray and I want to live on a mountain top where kids run in fields rather than in place.

I like it, I get it, I mean I understand the appeal in big meaningful ways. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or the lesser of two evils, neither of which is a necessity.

Yes, Nintendo throws a good party, and witness me biting the hand that fed me.

Last night in between Skidazzle, Soccer Meetings, Birthday Parties and Grocery runs I carved out a few moments because I wanted to stalk Mary and Q drop in on Mary and Q’s holiday fundraiser. The evite (thanks for keeping it green) read:

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Hear about my mother’s latest dog psychic (not to be confused with her first few), the time I tattooed Jane or Stella’s beachfront property in the Rocky Mountains?

In order to appreciate any of these stories fully, you should be open to the use of recreational narcotics. (and I say that without judgement)

Stella is a dear friend of mine and keeper of all secrets. She’s got eyes that sparkle and children that are changing the world.  Read her guest post today and do encourage her to give a little more.

Oh, praise be for the holidaze.  Those special cyclical moments in the calendar year when a family comes together on the pretense of bonding and celebration. Unfortunately, I now realize that I am part of that population that fears the holidaze. Think crows scavenging fields left devastated by Sherman in his plunder across Georgia.  When my children depart for their homes, my emotional psyche is left a barren wasteland. And no sooner do I entertain the idea of rising from my bed to till the garden with hopes of creating new growth, then here they come again. Don’t get me wrong, I love these people like cotton candy. The smells, the image of all that spun sugary  goodness melting on my tongue and racing down the interstate of my blood stream, fueling my pancreas, is heavenly. This is a standard summer high I start anticipating in June for the August state fair. But puleeeeze…. in moderation.  I don’t want to end up in a diabetic coma nor do I want to be the mother I was twenty years ago when I was raising this brood. The challenge is that we simply don’t speak the same language.  “Pick up after yourself, wash a dish, peel an onion” still receives looks of total incomprehension…. like I am speaking Urdu or Farsi. They can grunt at me for money, oil changes, and yoga pants and I get the message. Obviously I need to find a new translation manual but getting them to read it is another issue.

I remember the morning Nichole was murdered because I was on my way to work as a pesonal trainer in West LA. I didn’t realize until that evening that it was Uncle OJ’s wife and her friend who’d been killed.

I remember the criminal trial and the body guards and the quick bamboo fence that was erected around Rockingham to give some privacy. I remember that fucking dog Miles weighing more than I did, and OJ snidely commenting about me smoking too much. “What you’ve never made a mistake?” I joked with him.

I remember watching him try to read the articles that had been written about him and feeling sad that he couldn’t eek out the words.

Mostly I remember my friend Terri spiraling into the depths of depression and her mother Shirley falling apart at the seams. I remember Miss Eunice gathering her dignity and Starr Jones treating her particularly well inside the courtroom and out. I will always remember Star Jones saying to a fellow reporter, “That is not how you speak to your elders. Her name is Miss Eunice and she deserves your respect.”

I sat in the Santa Monica courthouse next to Brandy Ella, wondering why she was there and how much I could ask her about Jodie Foster. I wore my big pink Gucci Watermelon sunglasses and dozed in the gallery.

Today I watched “Uncle OJ” gnash his teeth as the judge handed down the sentence. 15 years plus one, eligible for parole in 5. I thought, oh, that’s the man who was a giant.

He’s the man who showed up at Cali Camp with his rainbow suspenders and clapped when we bounced around on the trampoline. He’s the man who always looked a little sad becuase his daughter had died. He’s the man who humored me and pretended my golf game didn’t suck. He’s the man who didn’t really know what to say to regular people.

Sadly, he’s the man who probably got away with double murder.
He’s the man who destroyed his family’s lives and livelihoods
He’s left a wake of destruction for the Goldmans and the Browns.

But when you’re a kid, and when you’re 20 and 25 and he smiles and laughs with you, you think he couldn’t possibly have killed two people.

So today I cried a little watching Shirley try to keep herself composed in the courtroom. I hope with Uncle OJ out of the picture the rest of the Simpson family can start to move forward.

He looks a little broken.
It’s all a little pathological.