Lolliblog

Everyday, noted.

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have been criticized for letting their 7 year old daughter Shiloh dress like a boy. It seems some think their refusal to discourage Shiloh’s predilection for cropped hair and traditionally masculine garb makes them unfit parents.
I was once in their shoes. My youngest by one minute daughter Eliza spent her childhood dressed in boys’ clothes, specifically, her older brother’s hand-me-downs. Like Jolie and Pitt, I felt that if this made her happy and comfortable, it was fine by me.
People had a tendency to lump the triplets together. As erroneous and annoying as this was, I figured that if we just raised them as individuals things would work out. Occasionally I’d dress them in matching stuff but most of the time they wore whatever they wanted. Rachael liked the color pink, along with a red turtleneck worn inside-out on her head so she could pretend she was Ariel, the Little Mermaid. Sarah liked sparkly jelly sandals and leggings. Eliza liked Jake’s cast-offs: his Ninja Turtles T-shirt, his cargo shorts, and his ratty Converse hi-tops. The times I did dress the girls for special occasions it would be only a matter of time before Eliza whipped off her dress and was running around in tights or underpants.
She also liked her hair short and uncombed, and was often mistaken for a boy. She didn’t care. But I caught a lot of grief from people I knew and complete strangers because I didn’t intercede. She’ll be confused when she grows up, people would say. Or, as one elderly woman in line at the grocery store said, “She should be wearing girls’ clothes. You don’t want her to turn gay”. Eliza, who was around four at the time, said, “That lady is dumb.” “Yes, honey, she sure is,” I replied.
Today, Eliza lives in Brooklyn. She does stand-up comedy several nights a week and works two jobs. With her waist-length ringlets and love of crop tops, no one would mistake her for a boy now. Her metamorphosis has been cool to watch from the sidelines, purely organic, like watching a flower bloom, only in this case, a flower holding nun chucks and the middle school record for push-ups. 
I look at photos of Shiloh I see the same feisty jaw-set, the same spunk and confidence I saw in seven-year-old Eliza. This is what self-knowledge looks like. It’s a force to be reckoned with, and by reckoned, I don’t mean judged or manipulated. I mean celebrated.

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have been criticized for letting their 7 year old daughter Shiloh dress like a boy. It seems some think their refusal to discourage Shiloh’s predilection for cropped hair and traditionally masculine garb makes them unfit parents.

I was once in their shoes. My youngest by one minute daughter Eliza spent her childhood dressed in boys’ clothes, specifically, her older brother’s hand-me-downs. Like Jolie and Pitt, I felt that if this made her happy and comfortable, it was fine by me.

People had a tendency to lump the triplets together. As erroneous and annoying as this was, I figured that if we just raised them as individuals things would work out. Occasionally I’d dress them in matching stuff but most of the time they wore whatever they wanted. Rachael liked the color pink, along with a red turtleneck worn inside-out on her head so she could pretend she was Ariel, the Little Mermaid. Sarah liked sparkly jelly sandals and leggings. Eliza liked Jake’s cast-offs: his Ninja Turtles T-shirt, his cargo shorts, and his ratty Converse hi-tops. The times I did dress the girls for special occasions it would be only a matter of time before Eliza whipped off her dress and was running around in tights or underpants.

She also liked her hair short and uncombed, and was often mistaken for a boy. She didn’t care. But I caught a lot of grief from people I knew and complete strangers because I didn’t intercede. She’ll be confused when she grows up, people would say. Or, as one elderly woman in line at the grocery store said, “She should be wearing girls’ clothes. You don’t want her to turn gay”. Eliza, who was around four at the time, said, “That lady is dumb.” “Yes, honey, she sure is,” I replied.

Today, Eliza lives in Brooklyn. She does stand-up comedy several nights a week and works two jobs. With her waist-length ringlets and love of crop tops, no one would mistake her for a boy now. Her metamorphosis has been cool to watch from the sidelines, purely organic, like watching a flower bloom, only in this case, a flower holding nun chucks and the middle school record for push-ups.

I look at photos of Shiloh I see the same feisty jaw-set, the same spunk and confidence I saw in seven-year-old Eliza. This is what self-knowledge looks like. It’s a force to be reckoned with, and by reckoned, I don’t mean judged or manipulated. I mean celebrated.

Eliot Was Wrong

According to T.S. Eliot, April is the cruellest month, but if you ask me, November’s got April beat.

Eliot talks about April mixing memory and desire, which is what I would describe as existentially bittersweet, while November’s brutal slide into winter, which I would classify not as a wonderland but an actual legit waste land, offers no sweetness at all, especially for those of us with poor circulation.

Basically, April is more annoying than cruel. It’s a tease. There’s the rain, the sun, the summer-like warmth, and suddenly the mercury takes a nosedive and you’re running to the attic for your down coat. But maybe that is cruel. After this sucky winter, even trademark whimsicality feels like more than any of us should have to bear.

But April can only hold out for so long. Eventually May will get the upper hand, and here’s where I think Eliot’s wrong. As cruel as April might seem, watching that wintry waste land recede in the rear view mirror feels a whole lot less cruel than seeing it looming before you. That is, unless you’re into skiing.

Ten Things Only Babies Can Pull Off

  1. Thigh rolls.
  2. Saggy diapers.
  3. An overturned bowl of spaghetti on the head.
  4. Chortling and/or gurgling.
  5. Toothlessness.
  6. Bibs (unless they are disposable plastic with a picture of a lobster).
  7. Exposed protuberant or “outie” belly buttons.
  8. Sailor outfits.
  9. Small plastic barrettes.
  10. Waddling around comically then falling down.

Waking

camazon:

And then some mornings you wake up at 5 from a dream of a tiger to find snow on the ground, knowing you slept through a lunar eclipse, and it’s time to pry your license plates from your car with a wrench, and it’s still National Poetry Month so all is not lost but some people are involved in hate…

Damn, this girl can write.

Band Name

I am not active on Facebook because I am vulnerable to time-sucks, plus I don’t understand exactly how the site operates and tend to embarrass myself, but a friend of mine put something on her Facebook page about creating your band name. Remember that thing about your porn star name, which combines your first childhood pet and street name? That made me Lassie Gilbert, which wasn’t half bad.

Anyway, you get your band name by combining the color of the pants you’re wearing and what you had for breakfast, which made my band Beige Oatmeal. Terrible, I know, and super annoying, because I’d just gotten back from my run, changed, and had started eating my breakfast, causing me to miss being Black Nothing by less than five minutes.

Coachella. Music and Arts Festival, Indio, California. Micah told me last Tuesday that he was thinking of going. He wondered how I felt about it.

“I don’t know. I’ve heard it gets pretty crazy.”

Micah laughed. “I think it’s as crazy as you want it to be.”

“I also heard it’s expensive. And isn’t it, like, soon?”

“Actually, it starts Friday. I bought a ticket from a friend for $460. I know that sounds like a lot but it’s a good deal and I can pay for it. And Tyler’s flying in from Connecticut.”

“Okay, Micah. It’s three days from now, you bought a ticket, Tyler’s flying in, and you’re thinking of going?”

Pause. “If you and Dad really have a problem with it, I could sell my ticket.”

I would never play that card, and Micah knew it, but I appreciated the symbolic generosity of the offer.

So I told him to use good judgment. He promised he would. I was moved, deeply, that he pretended to hand me the rope so I could pretend to cut him some slack.

Then I got this video. When your kids share your faith in the implicit yes, you’re long past reclaiming the no. So this is what happens.


Happy birthday, brother John. We shared childhood back when life was paced in real time, with snow forts and leaf piles and runs through the sprinkler on hot summer days. You taught me to ride a bike on our front lawn, so when I fell, I’d fall softly. I remember one Sunday night at the dinner table when we made each other laugh so hard milk sprayed out of your nose and we both got a spanking. With Mom gone, you are one of the three people on this earth familiar with the term cuddle bunny.
I wish you health and happiness and an extravagance of days to savor your life and those you love. You were my first best friend and when I think back on what made childhood sweet I hear us laughing and even knowing the consequences, still, we don’t stop.

Happy birthday, brother John. We shared childhood back when life was paced in real time, with snow forts and leaf piles and runs through the sprinkler on hot summer days. You taught me to ride a bike on our front lawn, so when I fell, I’d fall softly. I remember one Sunday night at the dinner table when we made each other laugh so hard milk sprayed out of your nose and we both got a spanking. With Mom gone, you are one of the three people on this earth familiar with the term cuddle bunny.

I wish you health and happiness and an extravagance of days to savor your life and those you love. You were my first best friend and when I think back on what made childhood sweet I hear us laughing and even knowing the consequences, still, we don’t stop.

How Christie Does It

My Top Five Anti-Aging Tips

By Christie Brinkley

Can you believe I’m sixty? Well, neither can I! Even factoring in all the airbrushing, I look fucking fabulous. And guess what? I’ve decided to share my fave five anti-aging tips with you!

  1. De-stress: I find that when it comes to relieving stress, nothing beats having no actual job or financial worries. But for those times I do get stressed, like when my colorist gets my highlights wrong, I chill out over a glass of Pinot in my private jet en route to St. Barths, or if that’s not possible, pop a few Xanax. Or both.
  2. Friendship: Never enter the battle against time solo! I make it a point to schedule quality time with my friend, Dr. Rob. After my other friend, Dr. Jan, starts the anesthesia, Dr. Rob lifts my epidermis, redrapes it, cuts the excess, then reattaches it, using sutures artfully concealed in my hairline and behind my ears. No sir, you will never find me asking these pals to get out of my face!
  3. Don’t forget the sunscreen: I’m serious. My assistant forgot mine the other day and I had to kill her.
  4. Get plenty of sleep: In fact, I’m sleeping right now and some sad editorial intern I’ll never meet is writing all this shit down.
  5. Moisturize: I am religious about moisturizing every single night. My product of choice is very hush-hush, because it’s harvested from the stem cells of embryonic endangered Siberian white tigers. Way out of your price range, totally illegal, but you can improvise. Buy the cheap drugstore crap I advertise on T.V. and slap it on your face. Remember, in the end, when it comes to anti-aging, it’s not about the moisturizer. It’s about making friends with Dr. Rob.

Pussy

When I was a kid, the word pussy referred to felines or the smaller species of the genus Salix (willows) when their furry catkins are young in early spring. But time passed and for pussy, things got ugly.

Pussy is now almost exclusively slang for two things: female genitalia and people, typically male, who are who are deemed soft, or “lacking balls”, “balls” being synonymous with courage.

While it’s too late to return pussy to the innocent associations of my youth, it’s not too late to reject its current connotations and most popular denotation by informing those who use it in the modern-day derogatory fashion that if it weren’t for both kind of pussies, the body part and the much-maligned personality type, the world would come to a screeching halt. The absence of pussies would mean the end of humankind and humanity. We’d be reduced to a planet of dicks, frantically slinging around big and very ineffectual balls.

When faced with something formidable, those who feel threatened rush to defuse by marginalizing and reducing, a strategy that extends to semantics. What happened to pussy is a prime example. Pussy became a pejorative for females and for accommodation, with both genders complicit in its propagation.

In my personal lexicon, I choose to define pussy as the place life begins, as well as a person possessing the flexibility to ease and sustain the journey. Simply put, a pussy is the absolute antonym of what they would have you believe.


For all of those people who told me she’s not your friend, she’s your daughter; turns out you were only half-right. She’s both. I love you, Bud.

For all of those people who told me she’s not your friend, she’s your daughter; turns out you were only half-right. She’s both. I love you, Bud.