I started a new blog. It’s called Mommyproof. It’s about parenting. You can check it out here. I’ll still be blogging at, but I’ll save the posts about poop for the parentally-inclined (or at least the parentally-curious).


The Casual Vacancy Book Review

J.K. Rowling wrote a book for adults. I reviewed it here (text is below) and explained why I just didn’t dig it. (For the record, I still want to have lunch with Jo so I can ask her whether her family ever plays Quidditch in the back yard and what happens if you whisper a killing curse. I still love her and I still love Harry. Don’t ever doubt it). “It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I’m obsessed with Harry Potter. I own a pair of plastic Potter



I’ll admit it—I’m shallow. I generally read books written for kids and teenagers and call it “research”–I am penning a young adult novel, after all—but the truth of the matter is that I just straight-up like stories about vampires, werewolves, wizards, and other-shit-that’s-not-real, and I’m not afraid to say it. So, I don’t usually pick up angsty teen stories about summer romances or realistic YA in general. But a friend recently clued me into a little book called Wonder by R. J. Palacio, and I was so hooked by the first page—no, the first paragraph—that I


The Mythical Momshell

Ever since I became a mom (all eleven months ago), I’ve started paying attention to the “wars.” The Mommy Wars, the Nanny Wars, and now (worst of all), the Body Wars. I wrote an essay here about the post-pregnancy belly a couple of weeks ago, not knowing that ex-US Weekly editor Janice Min would tackle the very topic in a recent New York Times piece titled “Can a Mom Get a Break?” Min bemoans the fact that moms in 2012 are caught in an incredibly unfair battle of the bulge. Did you look like Heidi


Am I a Millennial?

Am I a Millennial? I don’t know. According to certain sources, Millennials (or Gen Y-ers) are born any time after 1977 and before 2004. Others are a little more strict in their definition and only welcome post-1982-ers into the club.  I think it’s safe to say that even if I *barely* make the cut (born as I was in 1979), I am just not quite Millennial material, which is kind of sad, for a couple of reasons: a) that makes me feel old b) if I’m not a Millennial, what am I? c)


Artisanal tea and other musings

We had a really relaxing Saturday today—that is, if “relaxing” means punctuated by bouts of crying (our ten-month-old) and bouts of hysteria (parents of said ten-month-old when ten-month-old screams through an entire nap, makes it clear he does not appreciate his new car seat, and causes us to question our right to procreate). Then, yes—it was relaxing. We started off our day at the zoo, our son’s first trip, where he mostly looked at his hand instead of the animals (at this point, it’s not clear he knows the difference


No, I’m not pregnant again—that’s just my stomach.

I’m about to get really personal. I’m about to make my own physical shortcoming the topic of a public blog post, which is going to be incredibly uncomfortable for me, because (like many of us), I care how I look. I care how others think I look. And, even worse, I feel bad about myself when I think that others might think that I look bad (say that ten times fast). But that is why this post is incredibly important. That is why I feel compelled to write it, even


Having “it all”

So much to talk/think/write about this week and last that’s made me wish I had at least dabbled in feminist studies like my super-cool sister-in-law (actually, she didn’t dabble; she got a minor in the subject)—from the passing of a female legend to Anne-Marie Slaughter’s now infamous piece in the Atlantic. More about Nora Ephron in a later post (but if you’re interested, here’s a lovely personal essay I discovered, written by Ephron in 2006 that you’ll especially appreciate if you’ve ever been in love with a city, and even


Bringing Up Bebe

The other day, I wrote about how British things are better than non-British things. Today, I want to talk about French things—or, more specifically, French parents and babies. I read Pamela Druckerman’s Bringing Up Bebe several months ago, so some of the details are a bit foggy (that’s what happens when you have an 8-month old, who just ate paper for the first time today—yay). The book is a memoir, a witty and often pretty humorous tale of an American living in Paris with her British (yes, British!) husband when they have


British things are better than regular things

I love British people, things, names, clothing (and don’t forget accents), and I’m not ashamed to say it. This boutique clothing store in Notting Hill, London, exemplifies everything about the British and their things that makes them just inherently cooler and better than everyone else. Take the very name of the shop: Couverture and the Garbstore. Who has any idea what that means? Who cares? It’s cooler than any of us will ever hope to come close to being. Even the names of the designers are unfairly amazing-er than our whole planet: Ace & Jig,