Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

One of my personal heroes, Anne Bancroft, has died.

When I was 15, I wanted to be a middle-aged swinging housewife from the 1960s. Specifically, I wanted to be Mrs. Robinson in "The Graduate." It sounds strange, but it's true. I loved her style - leopard-print mini skirts, hoop earrings, two-tone streaked hair and a killer tan. She was awesome. I combed the racks of Aardvarks and bought every single pelt - mini skirt, coat, vest, go-go boots - I could get my hands on. I paired them with bright colored tights and hoops earrings, and made tails on my eyes with black liquid eyeliner. On a tall 15 year old from the San Fernando Valley, the look was decidedly retro-hooker (a couple of my friends' fathers commented on it), but in the best possible way. She was the original desperate housewife. And I'm not alone in wanting to emulate her fashion sense: look at Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan or Jessica Simpson. Though they may be doing it badly, and though not one of them would know what the hell I am talking about, they're all channeling a little bit of Mrs. R.

I read on the AP wire that Bancroft hated the fact that everyone associated her with that movie. I guess I understand, but few actresses reach such iconic status. She was tough and sad and sexy and far more appealing than her daughter Elaine, played by Katherine Ross. Although, a part of me wanted to be Elaine too. (A part of me wanted to be Benjamin, the Dustin Hoffman character, but that's another story.) At a young age, I knew that Bancroft was married to Mel Brooks, that she played Anne Sullivan in the "Miracle Worker" on Broadway (alongside Patty Duke Astin, whose memorable autobiography, "Call Me Anna," I devoured around the same time. Poor Patty!), that she and Shirley MacLaine slapped each other in that ridiculous fight scene in "The Turning Point." All that was great, but Mrs. Robinson kept me coming back. I've probably seen "The Graduate" more times than I have seen any other movie, and each time it's better than the last. My family lore has it that my mom married my dad after she saw it, which wasn't the smartest move on her part but still kind of romantic.

Baby Brain Blues

I'm sorry that so much time that has passed since my last post. I have been stranded on an seemingly deserted island, completely cut off from the rest of the world. Actually, the island is Manhattan. But my office changed locations a couple of weeks ago, and we've been without Internet service. It's funny, you don't realize how deserted an office can seem, how boring the workaday life, until you are without an Internet connection for a full day. After a full week, I was calling in sick. Before you judge, let me assure you that the illness is authentic - I'm allergic to that early-90s state of sitting in front of a computer that does nothing but word process. (Yes, I do have a home computer and a DSL connection, but I can't blog with my dog watching. Besides, my fucking iBook SUCKS. It either wants a divorce or a trial separation. I don't know, and I don't want to pay Tekserve another $200 to find out. I'd rather throw the piece of crap down a dumbwaiter and then challenge Steve Jobs to a bout of mudwrestling but, I digress...)

We still don't have a connection, and it's all my fault. I was in charge of the transition. In my defense, I got almost everything right. This was the one little thing I forgot until about two days before we moved. Still, I innocently thought I could call up MCI and ask them to simply move our T1 connection one block over to the new office. Apparently, it takes at least 3 weeks. Then, I shrewdly decided to call Verizon and get a DSL connection in the meantime. That, too, takes at least 3 weeks (mind you, if you order Verizon DSL at home, they foist it on you by the next day, just in case you change your mind. But where a business is involved, they're stymied). Now I have the two companies at war over my business. The one that can get me my Gawker.com first wins the heart and mind of a timely bill payer.

How could I have let this happen? I chalk it up to pregnant idiocy, or, as a friend of mine put it, baby brain. I've got big-time baby brain. Just take me to dinner and watch as I am unable to divide the check in half. I've gotten to the point where I'll just pay for the other person's dinner to get out of doing the math. Or eavesdrop on my conversation with one of the many vendors that provide my office with basic services. Granted, they are the real idiots - I'm convinced Verizon has institutionalized the concept of baby brain and it's part of the company training program - but I can hardly form a complete sentence. My husband, Herr Guitar, is worried because my once nearly infallible memory is getting swiss cheesy. For example, for five days I've been trying to remember what classic rock hit Bo Bice sang on the CBS Early Show (it was "Drift Away," I just looked it up). And heaven forbid something should go wrong. I can panic/cry/despair on a dime.

My friends at "What to Expect..." chalk baby brain up to distraction. I am distracted thinking about nursery colors and diaper prices and epidurals, and therefore cannot devote the brain cells necessary to remember or do math. But I'm not thinking about that stuff. I'm not really thinking about anything. That's part of baby brain - my old creative... well, obsessive neurotic... self has gone Cheech and Chong. I'm like way mellow man.

Even when I received the news that one of my many blood tests, the alpha fetoprotein test, had results that indicated a higher than average chance that my baby would have down syndrome, I was pretty cool. I had to have an amniocentesis, which is the test where they stick a big needle into your abdomen and womb, and suck out the baby's stray skin particles for dissection so they can count the chromosomes. Down syndrome is a genetic disease, but it is more common in children whose mothers are 35 and older. As you near 35, your risk increases. How does that happen? We lucky gals are born with all of our eggs, meaning they age with us. And like us, they start to show little signs of aging - an extra chromosome here or there - after 30.

Another digression: This reminds me of something I heard when I was in western Ireland a few years ago, an old man was describing his town's matchmaking festival. He said it was for girls they called "Christmas candy" - no good after the 25th.

The whole thing is such propaganda. I'm 33, and I think that the odds just based on my age are like 1 in 200. It sounds bad but that means the chances of my having a baby with down syndrome are half of one percent. After this test they increased to 1 in 23, which sounds awful! I can think of 22 women who have had healthy kids, and you know I'm going to be the unlucky sucker who proves the statistic. But, really, the odds are about 4 percent. Not great, but not cause for baby panic.

It also helped that a friend of mine had similar results on the alpha fetoprotein test and everything turned out to be ok. She herself heard many other tales of the false positive AFP. Plus, according to my doctor, it used to be the only game in town until they found a more reliable test, the nuchal translucency. Now they use both but in five years AFP will probably be forgotten. I could've avoided the amnio, but I didn't want to worry. Another friend went straight for it, just to be sure no genetic stone was left unturned. So I marched bravely to the amnio, hardly winced when they jabbed my belly, and went home and ordered pizza. Everything turned out fine.

Oh, and I found out that I'm having a boy. Maybe that's why I'm distracted. I have a little boy inside of me. God knows what those things think about.