Gab's Blabs

Time Magazine - What Year is it?

It appears as though shock journalism is alive and well and living beyond the confines of our local news channels. Time Magazine's May cover created quite a stir. Is their readership down? Or did they really want to address attachment parenting? 

I'm more likely to believe the former. 

To publish an article about attachment parenting is on par with questioning birth control ... so 1960s. 

I thought we were past this? Don't we have bigger fish to fry? Isn't the economy in despair? Don't we have troops to bring home? 

Instead, Time decides to stir the pot filled with nothing but water and a few Moms who breastfeed their teenagers. Quite frankly, there is nothing to discuss. 

I know. My latest video, Gab's Sooper Booby Jooce, gives the impression that a Mom should breastfeed and provide enormous amounts of milk for their children. Luckily, I was one of those women. Six months after I stopped breastfeeding my youngest, I still had bottles of frozen milk in the freezer. It came in handy for pink eye and dry skin as well as feeding my little heart-throb.

 

Gabrielle Birchak - Gab's Sooper Booby Jooce

However, I didn't make a big deal about it. My very dear friend, who wanted to breastfeed, simply couldn't do it. It was heart breaking for her. She wanted to nurture her child in the same way. But, through her challenges, she found other ways to nurture and love her child. And she was devoted to nurturing her daughter for years, as she stayed home and lived on a tight budget so she could spend every waking and sleeping moment with her daughter. 

I on the other hand, went back to work. The bottles of milk in the freezer sure didn't make up for the tears I cried knowing that I'd miss the first time my son would crawl or walk. Ultimately, I quit working and opted to spend my afternoons holding and loving my children in lieu of buying a larger house. I am grateful for a husband who understood my intentions.  

Breastfeeding, the last I checked, is a non-issue. Doctors agree that it's beneficial. The most work places now provide private rooms for Moms to pump. Public places don't have a problem with Moms draping a baby blanket over their shoulder to feed their fussy ones. 

Additionally, us Moms understand that each of us are different. It's 2012! Unlike Time Magazine, we've moved past our petty differences. Some can breastfeed, and others can't. It is what it is. We find other ways to love and nurture our children. And most importantly, we don't judge each other based on our lactating skills. We don't judge each other because one Mom opts to feed non-organic over organic. We don't judge each other based on the amount of baby weight we've lost. 

We understand what each of us are going through: colic babies, messy homes, not enough help, too much help, nosy parents or in-laws, hormones. Parenting is the hardest job a person could ever have, and if anybody understands that it is an exhausted parent, covered in throw-up, low on diapers and on their second day without sleep.

The last thing we need is a magazine to antagonize the relationships between parents. Shame on you, Time Magazine. 

If Time Magazine wants to increase their readership, maybe it should move past the 1970s, and address current and topical issues. Like the elections, poverty stricken areas of the country, our economy and (a little self- promotion here) the importance of voting ...

 

With the direction that the magazine is going, it makes me wonder what Time Magazine has in store for June for Father's Day. Will the editors choose articles like "Bringing Home the Bacon," or "Protecting Your Kids from Beatniks?" Or will they resort to a cover like Dad breastfeeding his child with a fake boob?

Romney's Clever Plan

In an effort to counter President Obama's "Forward" ad, Mittens Romney will begin production on his own "Forward" ad campaign, which his team will call "More Forwarder than Forward."

Here's POTUS' ad: 

 

 

How will Gingrich spend his last week?

My guess is that he will either eat or find another wife. 

Here's the Huff post breakdown

Haley Barbour pardons hundreds of criminals !!!

 

An All New Gab's VBlabs: Circus Politics

 

Giving The Finger to Mother's Day

Grandma Maggie wanted to make sure I had the finger. She also wanted me to have her precious, faux-diamond studded, Bitch necklace.

I miss my Grandma so much.

She taught me to have a better comeback – always. Case in point: when I was 14, I said to her, “Grandma, how do you find an old man in the dark?” I knew that she would fall for the joke and that I would shock her! I just knew it!

“How, Gabby?” She smirked.

“It isn’t hard.” The punchline! With perfect timing! I waited for her to gasp.

She took a sip of her beer and nonchalantly said, “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
 
I have all her old Op/Ed clippings. Whenever a local politician pissed her off, she sat at her typewriter until a scathing, biting article flowed from the pages. Then she would send it off to some local newspaper. She kept all the clippings. When we would visit her beautiful home in Bailey, CO, I’d thumb through them with complete awe. That was what I wanted to be: outspoken and fearless. She was my inspiration. She still is, even more so.

This was where I learned the importance of speaking up and speaking out at injustice, or at least political stupidity. This is where my VBlabs stemmed from. Grandma taught me that silence is the enemy.

She found her true love on her fifth marriage. I think it was her fifth. Georgie … a Jewish beatnik.

They used to go out drinking and partying. Grandma Maggie had a reputation for dancing on the tables (always wearing her faux-diamond studded Bitch necklace).

Then she grew too old for that. So, she resorted to pottery. 

Even there, she never chose to follow the crowd. When the other blue hairs were making bowls or vases, she made The Finger. This is by far, my favorite sculpture, ever.

As she aged, she blossomed. One Christmas, as the family sat around sharing small talk, Grandma decided to tell all of us about her recent outing to the neighbor’s house to smoke pot for the first time. She even wore a “hippy” skirt to commemorate the occasion. I was so impressed! Here she was in her 70s, trying something new. Oh, I so admired that! I vowed then and there that when I grew up, I wanted to be like Grandma Maggie.

I was lucky. She came around for my cousin Nancy and me. The rest of the kids, not so much. Nancy and I were so fortunate to learn about this diverse, talented, social, outspoken woman. I consider myself lucky and blessed, so lucky and blessed to have had her in my life.

I can still hear her voice. I can still feel her holding my hand. I can still feel her presence and smell her perfume.

And, with each Mother’s Day, I miss her more. I miss her jokes. I miss her advice. I simply miss having her around.

So, this year, I’m going to give the finger to Mother’s Day, for Grandma Maggie.

I know she would be proud.

Marriage Doesn't Fix It

I love Tracy McMillan's (TV Writer, Mad Men, United States of Tara) recent article in the Huffington Post titled Why You're Not Married.

I found myself arguing with these thoughts as they taunted my non-marital status during the late 80s and early 90s. To make it worse, I lived in L.A., where finding a decent man with decent values was like looking for a cross-dressing, disco-dancing transvestite in a convent.

McMillan’s rationale frighteningly sums up the character flaws that many of us women have thought to possess at one time or another. Lucky for Tracy, she was born knowing how to get married. Unlike myself.

I was born knowing how to be alone. Surrounded by siblings, I found comfort in my own room. Once I was in college, I loved living alone. It was just my cat and me. In a clean apartment with vaulted ceilings and brand new carpeting. It was heaven! I could study in silence. I could watch what I wanted. I could even argue with myself in silence. To this day, my husband prefers that I never mention my beloved apartment. He considers my single abode as my one and only true love, and as such, is jealous of it. He could catch me kissing an old boyfriend, and it wouldn’t faze him.

However, if I mention the apartment, the fangs of jealousy come out!

That being said, whether knowing how to be married or knowing how to be single, I have devastating news ladies: the flaws that McMillan points out are flaws that we possess even when we ARE married.

Let’s go down the list, shall we?

1. You’re a Bitch.

You’re angry.

McMillan writes that when you’re single, you don’t think you’re angry. However, once you’re married, you KNOW you are angry. You go from being angry with your mom, Sarah Palin, mass consumerism, etc., to being angry with your husband, the laundry, and the dishes.

McMillan states that men just want to marry someone who is nice to them. Kind of like their mother.

So, that’s what we become. Then we become overwhelmed with life. We can’t do it all. So, we revert to anger.

Let’s face it ladies, we’re bitches. We’re angry bitches, whether married or not. And, McMillan is right, female anger does terrify men. So, I say, kudos to the awesome men out there who are brave enough to deal with our anger, calm enough to quell it, and insightful enough to see the beauty in our beastliness and love the angry bitches that we are.

This is why they occasionally deserve Steak and BJ night.

2. You’re Shallow.

So, at one point in our singleness, we temporarily went from being shallow to being insightful. We realized that we needed to stop looking for that perfect man based on our extremely high standards. He no longer needed to make six to seven figures a year. He no longer needed to drive a sports car. He no longer needed to own a home in Beverly Hills.

Instead, we discarded our unreachable standards. We searched for men who could make us laugh, who were thoughtful, and who were smart. Moreover, they were!

Then, after marriage set in, we realized that our spouses were also human. Yes, human! That meant that those reachable standards were falling lower. So they don’t make six to seven figures a year. But, that’s still no excuse to forget to buy the occasional flowers for us. And, so we married guys who didn’t wear Italian suits, but that’s no reason to now resort to the faded Hawaiian shirts, shorts and (aagh!) black socks with Nikes. Don’t even get me started on the bathing thing.

So, we revert to shallowness. They piss us off; we run out and buy clothes. What could be shallower than spending the water bill money on a Dolce and Gabbana dress that not only makes our butt look small, but ALSO makes our boobs look huge! Yes, we are shallow.

Always was. Always will be. And, they still choose to love us.

3. You’re a Slut.

When we were single, we went on dates with guys to get drunk and get laid.

Now that we’re married, we go on dates with our husbands to get drunk and get laid.

And, we still dress up.

Yep, we’re sluts.

4. You’re a Liar.

OK, so we weren’t honest up front when we met our now-spouses. We never told them we were looking to marry.

It was all about “fun sex” for the guys, while we lured them into the relationship trap.

Now that we’re married, we still do it! Except now, the lies are easier because we are well practiced.

  Ladies, does this one sound familiar? “Honey, I’m really tired tonight. I promise we’ll make love this weekend.” C’mon. You know very well that you’ll be “really tired” Saturday night as well.

Here’s my personal favorite lie, “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to wash your black socks.”

I didn’t forget. I’m just a liar.

5. You’re Selfish.

McMillan writes that married women, especially with kids, are selfless because we have way too much shit to do.

That’s not true. We’re selfish, too.

Case in point: girls’ night out. Don’t fuck with girls’ night out.

Every man knows that if he’s not home on time for his wife to go to girls’ night out, he will be facing weekend castration.

But, when a hubby can’t make poker night? That’s not our problem.

We’re still selfish.

6. You’re Not Good Enough.

Those icky feelings never go away. Even after 14 years of marriage, I personally still never consider myself good enough. Ever.

I insult my husband when I’m tired. I yell at the kids when other moms would intelligently pick their battles. I feed the family McDonalds.

I’m a freelance writer, not on staff, because it allows me to be there for my kids. In other words, I have a huge gap on my resume. And, once they are old enough to take care of themselves (i.e. 30 years old), I may not be good enough as a staff writer anywhere.

Insecurity is part of being human. This also leads me to believe that Tony Robbins is not human. I digress.

Marriage fixes nothing. It only accentuates our shortcomings. Those faults will always be part of us, whether we are the husband, or the wife, or the husband’s husband, or the wife’s wife. Whether single or married, we are all loaded up with messed up, emotional baggage. We just carry that stuff into the marriage. Nothing changes. Unless we want it to.

McMillan writes that marriage is a “long-term opportunity to practice loving someone even when they don't deserve it.” I love that!

I think that’s true for non-marriage as well.

I don’t have it figured out as to why some people are married and some are not. I don’t even know why some marriages last and some don’t. But, I do know one thing: life itself is a “long-term opportunity” to commit to loving ourselves. Even when we don’t deserve it.

Dear God, now I sound like Tony Robbins.

Dear Tina Fey, what's the rudest question to ask a mom?

Oh, Tina Fey, I love you! I admire you! Next to my children, you are one of my greatest inspirations!

However, regarding your most recent article in The New Yorker, I must disagree. 

In your latest piece cleverly titled, “Confessions of a Juggler,” you write that the rudest question anyone can ask is not, “When do you plan to lose the baby weight?” but rather “How do you juggle it all?”

Um. Seriously?

I don’t know, Tina. For me, I would much rather prefer a question that garners my insight than to have someone insinuate that I have an ass the size of Texas.

Really? That’s an offensive question?

Maybe you need a girls’ night out with my besties. On those rare occasions, when me and my parent friends can align all the planets, part the waters, WALK on water for that matter, and arrange for all of us to meet at one place, at one time without a child or spouse in tow, we get together. And drink. Maybe light up the dubage. But, most importantly, we get together and exchange notes.

On those nights, we ask, “How do you juggle it all?” which is quickly followed up with “… because I suck at it, and I think you’re doing a better job than me. Please give me some insight.”

I think the more painful question that needs to be addressed here isn’t, “How do you juggle it all?” but rather, “Why do you work?”

That one goes right to the heart. That question rips open the jugular. Blood and tears spew. It hurts! It’s more painful than tiny Legos on bare feet or a poorly aimed Nerf dart.

That’s the worst question, ever.

I’m lucky that I gave birth to my two boys when I lived in L.A. When I had my first child, my besties were awesome. They visited. They cooked. They helped and loved me when the hormones did a mind-f*** on me. Some of these women were wives of entertainment execs, some were entertainment execs, some were co-op hippy moms, some were non-moms, and some were even stay-at-home dads (i.e. comedians or musicians). I could always count on them to say “good job” if I managed to shower and put on clean underwear that week.

Then I moved to Northern Virginia (NoVA to the elitists) just outside of D.C. for a brief stint to mock the politicians. In my first week there, I developed a severe case of culture shock. Two women on their morning walk passed by my house and mentioned that another neighbor is a working mom. The response was, “She’s a working mom? She should burn in hell for that.”

Holy Mother of Working Mother Magazine! I couldn’t believe I heard that!

Two weeks later, I had a painful experience (worse than scrapbooking) of listening to another elite NoVA mom go on an insane rant about another working mom, saying that Working Mom’s children will grow up to be drug addicts and rapists.

Clearly, I wasn’t in L.A. anymore. I was living in a culture where women stayed at home, living at their children’s beck and call. On those rare occasions when I’d meet up with another working mom/comedian, we’d get that look in our eyes and blurt out, “How do you juggle it all?” It was so refreshing to exchange tips and pointers. It became our stand-up fodder. It became our bible, our mantra, and our meditations, until we’d meet again on the circuit.

Those moments gave me the strength to stand up to the biting question of “Why do you work?”

At first I would respond with,
-    Because I love to work. Happy mommy, happy baby!
-    Because the extra income affords us the kick-ass bouncers for the birthday parties.
-    How else can I afford a house cleaner?

However, that didn’t quell the stay-at-home moms’ thirst for an argument. So then I would respond,
-    Because I hate scrap-booking.
-    So I can afford organic. 
-    All the moms are doing it now! You should try it; you might learn some social skills.

Finally, during my last year in NoVA, I grew bitter. I would just blurt out,
-    I work because I know it annoys the hell out of you.

The irony, now, is that many of those moms are now working because of our current recession.

 

“Why do you work?” is a question that implies that moms are neglecting their children. It takes the mindset back five decades to an age where men went to work and women stayed home. If a married woman worked it wasn’t out of necessity, it was out of choice. The race for the glass ceiling was on while moms’ humming, “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar,” placed their babies in daycare facilities to stew in their diapers. The horror!

What many stay-at-home moms don’t understand is that it’s a frickin’ community. Whatever way we can raise our kids in a happy, healthy, nurturing environment, we should do it. If Mary works 10 hours a day, while her child is in daycare learning sign language and Mozart, and Kathy pops in and out all day between acting gigs, and Stephanie stays home breast feeding four children simultaneously, if all the babies are happy, what does it matter?! We’re moms. We need to work together and stop scrutinizing each other for working. Good God. It’s not like we’re snorting cocaine and pole dancing in the clubs!

 

Gratefully, I am now back in L.A. and surrounded by my besties who don’t care if I work or not, who give me kudos for being a good mom, and who occasionally congratulate me on bathing. 

Succinctly, Tina, when someone asks you how you juggle it all, he is impressed with you and your ability to be a prominent, successful, and hard working mom. She is probably an insanely busy and tired parent looking for insight, someone like me - who adores you, considers you to be her hero, would give her left titty to hang with you for 15 minutes, and who genuinely believes that you deserve every single accolade you’ve ever won simply because you f***ing rock.

We just want to know how you do all the awesome work you do and still manage to be a great mom (i.e. you remembered to put your daughter’s library book back in her backpack!) Ms. Fey, it is nothing but sincere, it is nothing else but a compliment when we ask you, “How do you juggle it all?”

Just say, “Thank you.”

Pajama Jeans - For Super Sizzler Saturday Nights!

Now, for all those women who are too lazy care! Now for all those moms who hide behind the excuse of “being the perfect stay-at-home mom who is too busy to bathe or exercise”! Behold Pajama Jeans!

 

What are Pajama Jeans, you ask? Pajama Jeans are jeans that are pajamas, i.e. read: clothing for slothful women. Wear them for a week, and no one will notice!

Now, excessively large moms will have something to “don” before Special Sizzler Saturday Night! So many features, where to I begin?!

-    Compared to those nine-year-old Hanes sweatpants, they are kinda nice to look at.
-    They have a mock fly, to justify that camel-toe, or in some cases, that moose knuckle.
-    They have “front and back contrast pocket stitching and brass rivets,” which conveniently distract the eyes from butt divots.
-    They are stretchy. Perfect for those “All You Can Eat Buffets.”
-    They are so comfortable, that women will want to sleep in them. Convenient, again for Special Sizzler Saturday Night. They can just wear them to bed, wake up and voila, they’re in their Sunday Go To Meetin’ clothes!
-    They are made from babies blankets, so again, women can sleep in them Sunday night! This third night of wear actually helps to obtain that “I love my kids more than you do,” look come Monday morning at school drop-off.
-    Lastly, they come in 3XL!

Order today and get a free, unattractive, grey, unshapely, crew-neck (i.e. hide those boobies) tee!

Ah! Pajama Pants! Fashion for the Slovenly!

 

Laugh - My Tribute to Funny or Die

Laugh. You didn’t lose your job today.

I have a laughing Buddha on my desk. I have three more in the entrance area to my house. I bought those over a decade ago, when I was a phase in my life when my mantra was “adaptation or die.”

That’s where I am now. There’s where the country is now.

I keep repeating the old mantra, “Never say die.” So, I guess my only choice is adaptation.

I’m not sure where many of you are right now, in light of this gloom and doom economy. I’m frustrated. I’m a struggling comedian and my husband could potentially lose his job. Everyone I talk to has either lost money in stock, lost a job or lost both. Some have even lost a spouse over the stress of the current economic times.

I couldn’t image what life would be without a best friend. Especially now.

The government, or the media, whichever you like to call that powerful propaganda machine that tells us how to think, is calling this a recession. I think they are full of shit. My father lived through the depression … he can see that this is a depression. OK, it was funny when defining whether the ex-president or governor inhaled or didn’t. But to “define” a financial mess is absolutely ludicrous. We’re in a depression. My friends are depressed, my parents are depressed, and the country is depressed. We’re in a screwed up depression. Period. End.

Where is this all taking us? It seems like there is so much gloom in the air that it’s sometimes challenging to breathe. How do we cope, how do get by. Well, I refuse to die. I’ve lost money in investments. My family needs to prepare for the worse, which means that I’m going to have to pass on a few “great gigs for free beer” in order to build up a savings in case my husband loses his job.

It sucks.

And I’m one of the lucky ones. I have friends that are moving their entire families back in with their parents. Now THAT’S a blow to the ego. My heart goes out to those folks.

How do we get through this? What’s the answer?

Well, my first response is get drunk and cry like a baby. Works for me every time.

But, there comes a time when we need to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. That’s the American way. That’s our ideology. That’s what Americans are famous for … that and Hollywood … oh, and porn. But, we ARE famous for the bootstrap thing. That is why so many people want to move here … because, dammit, we really believe that any thing is possible in this country. Anyone can be the next Will Ferrell, Tina Fey … or God forbid, the next Donald Trump, comb over and all.

Then, I think we need to turn to our own laughing Buddha. Things may suck. We may lose our jobs, we may lose opportunity because we’re swamped, keeping our financial heads above water. But, is it so bad that we can’t laugh – or at least smile?

There’s a lot to be said for laugher. It creates endorphins. It makes us feel good. For some, it encourages us to pop a cold one and relax a little, and bask in the feeling of denial. Nothing wrong with that.

I’m indebted to Funny Or Die. Being a writer having to step away from the stage and laptop for a while, I’m indebted that I still have a cheap place to go with a beer to kick back for a while. I’m indebted to the cool, invisible friends I’ve made here that support and encourage me. I’m indebted to Will Ferrell and the creators of Funny or Die, because, amidst this crappy environment that our country is living in, I have a place to laugh and make a complete ass out of myself.

So, my dear FOD friends, lets put our heads down, let’s get through this screwy financial mess, and in the meantime, let’s keep laughing.