New Concepts in TV Programing

"What are you watching, America's Next Top Model?"

"Sadly, yes."

"They should call this show The Biggest Loser."

"Maybe they should switch the names of the shows."

"America's Next Top Loser?"

"And The Biggest Model."

Mama, Don't Ask Me Stupid Questions

Me: Today we went to the Farmer's Market, right?

Milo: We went to the Farmer's Market and you shook something.

Me: You wanted to shake the spinach, but I said no.

Milo: Mama said no. Then you ate pickles. They were spicy.

Me: And then Dad bought you something special to eat, do you remember what it was?

Milo: Dad bought you a donut at the Farmer's Market.

Me: Did you like the donut?

Milo: Milo loves donuts. And Mama loves donuts. And Dad loves Donuts.

Me: Actually, I don't like donuts. I prefer ice cream. What do you like better, donuts or ice cream?

Milo: What flavor?

When Writers Strike

One thing we all learned from this weekend's New York Times is that when writers go on strike they still feel the need to write stuff, which means that the Sunday paper was filled with I'm-A-Starving-TV-Writer essays. I have mixed feelings about this strike. On the one hand, as a writer, I want the best for other writers. On the other hand, these are not coal miners who are being denied health care by the mining company, or people who are risking their lives daily to provide us with ...coal?... or grumpy northern English steelworkers who are watching their towns suffer at the hands of corporations while their youngest sons go to London to become ballerinas.

Instead, we've got pictures of Seth Myers and Tina Fey walking around in front of the NBC building, which only reminds us that, hey, those people work at the NBC building, one of the nicest buildings in New York, where you have to pass through maximum security just to get into the elevators, and when they're done with their insanely highly paid day jobs they probably just pop over to Bergdorfs to pick up a new cashmere scarf and patent leather gloves so they're not cold the next day on the picket line.

The fact is that when you decide to become a writer you pretty much agree to receive payment in non-monetary ways. Like looking lovingly at your article in a magazine, for which your hourly wage probably comes to something like -23 cents, or smiling at your book as you pass it in Barnes and Noble, the advance for which you spent long before the book even came out. I'm not saying this is right, and certainly writers deserve to be as ridiculously rich as producers or actors or those guys who design the opening credits or whatever else TV people do that makes them zillions of dollars. I'm just saying that it's hard to have sympathy for people who have jobs that most people would do for free, and also for which I would be a willing and able scab. In case anyone at the Daily Show wants to hire a few scab writers. I could totally do that job. I swear.

Housekeeping at Twenty Four Months

Dear Milo,

This installment is a bit late because I haven't had much time between Halloween, your birthday, and the birth of your cousin to sit down at the computer with a nice stretch of time to think about you and what I want to document about the last month. Let me start by saying that you are a joy, every day, every minute, even when you are refusing to put your socks on or attempting to open every single gate between 8th Avenue and 7th Avenue.

We just got back from a trip that would have knocked an adult flat out (I slept 13 hours myself last night) and with the exception of a few yelps of "I want to get OOOOUUUUTTT!" somewhere in the middle of Delaware, you were a trooper. You found everything about the trip exciting, from running around the hotel room yelling "This is a hotel! This is a hotel!" to the fact that the doors on the Metro go "Do-do-do-do" instead of "Bing-bong" as they do in the NYC subway.

You've also become extremely affectionate, giving real hugs and kisses, and this morning walking around the apartment with your arms wrapped tight around both Little Monkey and Panda Bear because you wanted them to be friends. You like to pet Oscar, and start out each day asking Oscar "Do you want a treat Oscar? I have a special treat for you."

The other major development of the past month or so is your ability to tell jokes. For some reason you think that "Pickles and onions" is a hilarious response to a range of questions, and in general you're right. You also think it's a riot to insist on using the wrong word in some cases, which is without a doubt a trait you inherited from your great-grandfather. Yesterday you sat in a plane at the Air and Space museum and insisted that you were "driving" the plane despite all the adults in the room being pretty sure the correct word when it comes to planes is "flying." This morning when I left you were telling your nanny about the plane and when you saw me come into the room you added "Milo DROVED it. DROVE it DROVE it DROVE it," and then doubled over laughing.

You also love word play, which I guess isn't surprising. Yesterday you looked at the letter W and said, "Double-you? Double me!"

Music: still big. You know all the words to a whole range of songs, and sometimes you can even carry a tune, which leads me to believe that you might be able to sing when you get older. You love your guitar and your "pinano" and usually demand to listen to music during most meals, singing along with songs like "Cows" and "Belly Button" and occasionally Desmond Dekker, Harry Belafonte, and Simon and Garfunkel.

Mops: finally waning, thank God. You still note their existence, but you have largely moved on to construction equipment and trucks. You know the difference between most types of construction equipment ("That's a front end loader. That's a excavator. Look at that big, big bulldozer. That's a tiny little forklift."), which means that I, too, have reached a level of fluency when it comes to heavy machinery that I never anticipated needing in my lifetime.

You're everything I could have wanted in a child: happy, energetic, into everything, funny, and like any good little Jewish boy, you love your Mama.

Also, you're beautiful:


Love,
Mama

First Trick-Or-Treating

For the past week I'd been trying to set up Halloween for Milo, explaining that he would walk to people's houses with a bag, say "Trick or treat" and they would give him candy. My explanations were routinely met with puzzled looks, as though Milo were thinking, Mama, seriously, nothing in my entire two years of experience leads me to believe that random people on the street will give me candy, and quite frankly I find this whole alleged "Halloween" thing to be a little suspect.

In any event, here's how it went down:


A little overwhelmed at first.


"Mama carry you better than walking."


Inspecting the candy.


"Mama, take a picture of the candy!"


Spooky Halloween sky.


"Want to eat the candy now! FInd more candy!"