Monthly Archives: January 2009

Dear Oprah Winfrey and Diane Sawyer,
I implore you both to refrain from giving Nadya Suleman a bigger voice.

The woman is clearly deranged, she’s created 14 new people and subjected them to gross neglect from the moment of conception. Rather than exalt this woman, and give her the attention she so desperately craves, please ignore her. Feeding her illness is akin to telling an anorectic she’s plumped up a little.

Perhaps instead you’ll parade medical ethicists, malpractice attorneys and mothers of multiples in front of the screen.

I promise, we’ll still tune in (I actually use my DVR), and ladies, we’ll talk about you.

And if you listen to my plea, I’ll talk about you nicely.

Warm Regards,

Jessica Gottlieb

In the earliest months of 1998 I was a newlywed woman with one thing on her mind. I wanted a baby. It wasn’t because I felt particularly prepared for motherhood, it wasn’t because I had a big home or a husband with a great income. It was because I was madly in love my husband and I longed to start a family with him.

A family.

Not a baby, but a family. You see, much like puppies and kittens, they’re cute and irresistible, but they will in fact grow up and become adults. In order to have my children I first got married, treated my body well with a great diet and exercise, and I set up my home. I made sure that I had the time and energy to care for my children. We have two children.

I won’t have any more children.

Telling people that I won’t have another child makes me ill. I have to hold back tears and pretend like it’s not terribly disappointing. The reality is that I’m a 38 year old woman, children are expensive and I wouldn’t abort a baby if an amnio revealed they were somehow impaired.

I understand the decision to keep eight babies. I couldn’t selectively abort either.

For that reason, and for that reason alone, I am not a candidate for fertility treatments. I have two breasts with one nipple each, this body is meant to carry one child, perhaps two, it’s a stretch for nature to give us triplets, but it’s an unthinkable absurdity to have eight children in one human womb.

First, do no harm.

Based on media reports there is a single mother who is bankrupt, living in a home that is already overcrowded with six children under the age of seven and no father in sight. There are eight more children who will hopefully come home from the hospital in a month, and have eight sets of unique needs. The Grandfather is returning to Iraq to earn more money.

In the City of Los Angeles a daycare provider would need to a four to one ratio to care for the infants. From the moment of birth, these children will fall under the umbrella of neglect.

I expect that within two years (most likely sooner) the children will be knocking on the door of the local resource center to get physical therapies, speech therapies, behavioral therapies and more. I wouldn’t deny these babies services to which they are entitled. These are million dollar babies, each of them, and it’s unconscionable. It’s startling to me that an MD doesn’t know better, perhaps their malpractice insurance can take care of some fraction of the medical bills these eight people are creating.

I would like to meet the physician who decided that a single woman with six small children and no apparent resources needed more.

The mother is a fool who will gobble up California’s resources, and hopefully do only minimal damage to the lives she created. I pity her, and I worry for her children.

The physician is a failure on every level, I’d like to see him/her named.

It pains me to admit to all of them, so I’ll do it here, I’ll do it once, and I’ll humbly ask you to mock me behind my back.

At the party, to Karen Samuels when she told me she was in Law Review with Obama: Oh wow, I didn’t know you’re a lawyer. Where did you go to law school?

At Consumer Reports when meeting Dr. Val: [checking her up and down like a high school sophomore] Aren’t you a little bit pretty to be a doctor?

Upon entering Girls In Tech, Shaking hands with Trina from GamingAngels.com, “oh are you from Girl Gamer? I love them!” *le sigh* Trina, seriously darlin, I can love you too.

The best of all might have been yesterday and it’s very uniquely LA. (more…)

Only Tackier.

I’ve taken advantage of a zillion opportunities offered to me because of this blog, and guess what I’ve done? I’ve gone out and partied myself to death instead of taking a few moments and properly saying Thank You.

Thank you for giving me a voice.

Let’s start with the inauguration day party. It was great, why?

First off, it was at my house, which I always appreciate because it means I stand a pretty good chance of showing up on time.

Secondly, there was a caterer. (more…)

If you haven’t read Chris Brogan’s post about doing it wrong then go on over there now and have a read. I’ll wait.

*tapping foot impatiently*

Good, I’m glad you’re back. (more…)

“My looks are fading.” She said. It wasn’t meant to illicit pity, nor was she fishing for a
compliment. It was a statement of fact, a pragmatic woman who is looking for a
few fillers in the creases around her mouth and a dab of botox around the
corners of her eyes.

Yes, your looks are fading, so are mine.

We’ve known each other our entire lives, we’re staring at
39, we’ve fed babies and watched our perky breasts settle into sad parodies of
their former selves. Our waists have stretched and mostly flattened out again,
but, still we are looking at forty. She is fearful, I am free.

You see, she was the pretty girl, I was the entertaining one.

Much like Diane Keaton I wasn’t the pretty girl, so I did
have to work on my fucking personality. In middle school it wasn’t fun with all
the Stacie’s who dotted their i’s with bubble hearts and teased their flawless
blonde hair so that it waved at the sky just so. I didn’t rely on my looks, as I was the vaguely ethnic child
in a sea of blondes with frizzy hair that didn’t want to cooperate, I never felt
ugly, but I knew I wasn’t the pretty one.

Perhaps my unprettiness will save me from myself. I’ve botoxed and recovered nicely, I’ve
tried wearing makeup and toyed with the idea of an eyelift. I’ve talked
girlfriends out of surgeries, all the while wishing I could have one sans pain.
I feel sorry for my neighbors who have mutilated their faces, engorging their
lips and breasts and stretching the limits of their dermis. All over the
country they would be seen as surgical disasters, in my hometown of Los
Angeles, they are celebrated and put on television.

She trots off to the surgeon for a light dose of botox and a
half a vial of restalyne. She loves the restalyne and leaves a message in my
voice mailbox about how it’s the most wonderful thing anyone can do for themselves.
I should try pampering myself a little more.

Instead I take the $1,400 and spend a night in a swanky
hotel, with my husband and my kids. He can’t see my wrinkles, when we talk he’s
staring right into my eyes.