I’m watching the shit out of this, I can tell you that.
I just cannot wait to see this movie. Everything about Amy Schumer is best.
I like TV. I like sitcoms, I like dramas, I like all of it. I have blogged about my favorite shows before (You’re The Worst, Jane the Virgin, Orphan Black, Party Down) and I left out even more (Brooklyn Nine-Nine really makes me laugh, mostly because of Chelsea Peretti; In Treatment was a master class in character writing, and Fox and I have a guilty pleasure in Forever – we watch it, turn to each other and say ‘this show is not as good as it thinks it is’ – and then watch another one right away).
I had been meaning to watch About A Boy for a while. I finally watched three last night and laughed my ass off. It’s extremely funny and charming and you should watch it.
Madewell High Riser Skinny Skinny Jeans in Pure White.
I KNOW. Everything about high-waisted white jeans sounds wrong in every single possible way. And I truly hate those ugly little brown shoes the model is wearing. Hate is such a strong word, but in this case, truly appropriate.
But trust me. These jeans are amazing. I forced my friend Amy to get a pair in blue when she came to visit from London a couple of months ago, and she reported back that people in London were stopping her on the street screaming WHEREDIDYOUGETTHOSEJEANSOHMYGOD, or words to that effect.
I blogged about these jeans before, but now that they are out in white, I need to blog about them again. Just try them. In your usual size. And prepare to fall completely in love with your ass. (Arse. Whatever.)
So, a few years ago my friend Joanna wrote an amazing series about working-at-home mothers. I was 8.5 months pregnant with Errol at the time, and it was almost giddy with relief as I read it and realized that other women, just like me, worked from home, loved their career as well as their babies and didn’t want to give up everything not diaper-related.
I also realized that everyone makes it work differently. The question was how we would make it work. It’s not the same as having maternity leave from an office job (though obviously that sucks on a bunch of different levels, particularly in the US, don’t get me started). Being a writer like having a shop: if you don’t open the shop, ie, write stuff, people will assume it’s closed down for good. So I had to get back to work right away, editing my third book, so from the very start with Errol, we had a part-time nanny. She was amazing with him and took care of the endless arranging/laundry stuff you have with babies (ENDLESS NO REALLY IT IS ENDLESS). I fed him, and she burped him and put him down while I got right back to work. On the days she wasn’t working, I wrote furiously while he napped. I was tired from being up for night feeds, but I was determined, and when it comes to writing with a baby, determination is very, very important. But then he grew up. And napped less. We moved to New York and got a new part-time nanny. Fox was traveling at least 50% of the time for work. I felt like I was always racing against time to manage the house admin (laundry and food shopping and tidying and I-should-change-the-sheets and do-we-need-more-wipes and should-I-sterilize-the-pacifiers), on top of writing and actual mothering. I was majorly stressed out and felt like I never quite had time to breathe. Then I got knocked up again and threw up constantly, and my writing slate grew – which was wildly exciting, but it got even harder. That’s when we met our full-time nanny, who is incredible and takes care of the stuff that used to really stress me out, and everything changed. And that’s also when my work really took off.
Anyway, I figured, in case it was helpful to any other writer-mothers, I’d tell you how it works right now.
5.30am/6am wake up and write in bed. This has always been my absolute favorite time to write, because the world is quiet and my head is all mine. If I’m feeling sleepier than usual, I just lie in bed and think about ideas. I have a little file in my head of ideas for future projects, and dawn is a good time to take them out and give them a little shake to see if they’ve grown.
7am Fox (husband, 36) and I get Ned (son, 1) and Errol (son, 3) up. Cuddles and storybooks and milk and cereal and toast and fruit and pajamas and weewee and firetrucks and Lego and singing and chaos.
8am. Our lovely nanny arrives. I buzz off to this place for an 8.30am class a couple of times a week. The other days I shower and get straight to work. I have a little office off the living room. Once I sit down, I don’t mess around waiting for some muse to strike. I write hard. I write as though it might be my last chance to get everything I’m thinking out on the page. I write like I’m in love with whatever I’m writing – in fact, no, I write because I’m in love with what I’m writing. I am a teensy weensy bit obsessive – I call it focused, but yes, obsessive works. I don’t ever go on Facebook or IM or any of those timesucking clickbait Buzzfeed sites. I check Twitter once every few days. I rarely write blog posts. All I do is write my stuff. If I’m not writing, I’d rather be with the boys.
At about 11am Ned wakes from his nap so I come out of my work trance for a cuddle and some kisses. (Is that lame? Probably. But he is SO SWEET.) Then I get back to work. About 12.30, our nanny goes to get Errol from preschool, or sometimes I do (it’s just around the corner, about a three-minute walk). At around 1 I usually have lunch with them, and then play. At around 130, Ned goes back for a nap, and I get back to work.
At least once during the afternoon, probably four times, Errol will come in and say ‘FIRE ON MUMMY! FIRETRUCKTH TO THE RETHCUE’ and pretend to put out a fire on me, or beg in his little cartoon duck voice ‘Will you pleath come play trainth wid me?’. It’s impossible to say no to that without feeling like a heartless ogre, plus I like playing trains, so I usually (not always, not if I’m in a total trance, but usually) just play for a while and then get back to work. When Ned wakes from his nap he will often crawl in, sit next to my desk and lift up his wings like a chubby baby bird, wanting to be picked up, and obviously it’s impossible to say no to that, too. Anyway, the reason I work from home is to be around for this stuff. So basically, any writing in the afternoon happens in chunks. From memory, this happened in an office too: I’d write in between meetings, or phone calls, or someone playing The Seed by The Roots, very loudly, over and over again. I’ve said it before, but an advertising agency is in fact very good training for working with infants hanging off you, screaming for attention. I am good at slipping in and out of intense focus, and having inane conversations with people who might cry if I don’t play nicely. Advertising is also good training for having a lot of ideas, very fast, and for making brutal changes and edits without breaking a sweat. It’s not art, darling. It’s just copy. Anyway, I digress.
At 4pm or so, unless I’m on a really tight deadline, I usually shut the laptop. We all play trains (or bake cakes, or paint macaroni necklaces, or pretend to be cows, or whatever) and either the nanny or I makes dinner. If it’s summer, we go to the playground. (Right now it’s revoltingly cold and slushy outside so unless we go here, we’re always inside.) The boys eat at 5pm, have a bath, and are asleep by 6.30pm. Our nanny usually leaves about 6pm, and by then – blissfully – she has also cleared the living room of toys and the kitchen is clean for us to start our dinner.
And that’s my day. It can be tough and stressful sometimes, but I tell myself that everything worth doing is tough or stressful sometimes. And the benefits far outweigh the negatives. If they’re sick, I’m here. I get to hear Errol singing with happiness and Ned shouting ‘DADADADA’ and I get constant hugs and kisses. I don’t have to worry about silly time-consuming shit like commuting. I don’t have to go to the supermarket, or get dry cleaning, or run errands, or any of that stuff that seems simple and can actually take up hours of the day. New York is an incredibly easy place to live in that regard: a lot can be taken care of in the swish of an app. I constantly remind myself that I am damn lucky.
Oh, right. Evenings. The evenings have never been a stellar writing time for me. When I’m under a tight deadline, or exchanging work emails with people in LA (ie three hours behind), then I’ll slip back into the office for another hour or two, but otherwise, Fox and I just hang out together. We talk, cook, read books or the paper, watch TV, or go out for dinner. You know. Husband-wifey stuff. Sometimes I catch up on blog reading, sometimes write emails if I’m not feeling completely wrung out of words (I always, always owe my friends emails). I go on Pinterest or Instagram. All the usual stuff. I go to bed early, either thinking about stories, or thinking about the boys. Both send me to sleep pretty happy. (Pre-baby Gemma would be totally disgusted that sometimes I drift off, thinking about how adorable Ned’s chubby hands are, or how sweet Errol is now that he’s talking and asking little questions all the time, and okay, it’s pretty lame, but, well, whatever.)
And that’s it. Boring, I know… but the only way that I know how to be a writer from home with very small children is to sit down every morning and write, no matter what. Writing is my job. I do it every day. No excuses. I write fast, and I usually have multiple projects at the same time. When I’m not sitting at a laptop, I’m often still thinking about it, writing in my head. I will never run out of ideas or enthusiasm for telling stories. It’s the way I’m built. I love everything about it. Except maybe being alone all day – sometimes I really miss working with a team. But I figure this hermit stage of my career meshes perfectly with the boys being so tiny. When they’re older, life will change. For now, this works. Just.
PS I wrote this about how I worked, pre-babies, back when I was still working in advertising in London. That post also owes a rather big debt to Bridget Jones. (Vg.)
PPS Errol and Ned and me.
Clearly no one NEEDS a $95 candle.
But if you find yourself, as I did recently, with a gift card for a place where you just didn’t want anything else, but you had to spend the damn thing, OR if your significant other is looking for something to get you for Valentine’s Day, then this is the answer.
Cire Trudon, Solis Rex.
This is the ad copy.
Inspired by the elaborate parquetry of Château de Versailles’s famous Hall of Mirrors, this regal perfume radiates vapours of wax, candelabra and palace. A sumptuous trail of incense weaves through a tapestry of coniferous trees, cut with solar rays of citrus.
I bet the copywriter high-fived himself after getting away with that shit.
Ignore the copy. It smells amazing. Green and sharp, but not like being punched in the face by a fistful of mulch. Powdery, but not old ladyish. Clean and soapy, but none of that nasty muguet. It’s just SO GOOD. It will make you happy.
I love Cire Trudon Candles. I’ve been faithful to the Ernesto candle for years, and was on my way to get another one with my little gift card when I sniffed Solis Rex and dropped Ernesto like drunk girlfriend on New Years Eve. Cire Trudon candles last for about a year (way, way longer than Diptyque), burning one for an hour will make your whole house smell divine all day, and after they’re all used up, you can use them for your make-up brushes, or pens on your desk, or whatever blows your skirt up.
You can buy it at Lucky Scent or John Lewis in the UK.
An old favorite. There’s no video to watch, so just turn it up, close your eyes and listen, toots.
This morning I realized that I check Instagram before I check my email.
Is that normal?
For me, it’s WILD. I’ve been a pretty half-assed social media person since the start. I like my thoughts to stay in my head, and if they come out, to be fully-formed and directed a particular audience, usually my husband (the poor bastard). If they’re really funny or interesting, I put them in a book or a movie or a TV show, or write them in a notebook so I can use them some day in a book or movie or a TV show.
And then all my other thoughts – most of my thoughts, let’s face it – are not worth saving or sharing. Ranting in my head about the number of emails I get from retailers with the wrong it’s/its in the title is boring, even to ME. Venting publicly about how bad something is makes me feel sad, because someone put a lot of love into that thing, even if that love was wildly misplaced. So… that doesn’t leave much to talk about. You know?
I don’t really do Facebook, never have, never will. I have a profile on there, but I check it about once every six months. And when I do check it, I am overwhelmed by a sort of nihilistic ennui about humanity. I am not alone in this. Teenagers know.
I think Facebook was originally kind of like finding a new bar when you’re in college and you’re like, I LOVE THIS BAR! THIS IS THE BEST! EVERYONE IS AWESOME HERE! COME PARTY WITH ME! And all your friends came and they were being hilarious and it was great. Then suddenly that dork from your International Relations tutorial came along which was annoying but it’s a free country, and then that idiot who bullied you in high school but you can deal with it and it’s kind of nice to see how fat she is now even if she keeps showing you pictures of her awful baby’s new teeth, and then your ex came in which is super-annoying because how dare he still exist, and then some tequila girls came in and gave you free shots and you were like well that’s more like it, but then a really dorky Kind Bar promotional guy came in and tried to give you free power bars and made bad jokes and said things like ‘WHASSUUUP’ which was just pathetic, and then finally some stranger came over and tried to sell you Sealy Posturpedic mattresses, just because you were talking to your friend about the squeaky bed when you got laid last night and he was eavesdropping and figured you might be interested, and you were like FUCK THIS BAR SUCKS I AM SO OVER ALL YOU PEOPLE.
Twitter used to be fun, but somehow isn’t anymore. Somehow it’s just as chaotic and boring as Facebook.
Instagram, however, is adorable. Like a thousand little windows into a thousand little universes. I don’t follow celebrities because it makes me feel creepy. And I don’t hate-follow anyone, although I know that is a thing. I just follow people I like.
I have a private feed on Instagram, though I accept just about anyone who asks, as long as their profile doesn’t seem bananas. I realize that it’s probably a total false sense of security, but at least this way, no one truly crazy (or, um, the guys I used to date) can just wander through the internet and see photos of my life. Anyway. What about you?