Don't Hate Me 'Cause I'm Beautiful!

All hell has broken loose in England after a blonde journalist called Samantha Brick wrote an article for the Daily Mail complaining how beautiful she is. And how women hate her for it. Poor thing.

Samantha Brick in the Daily Mail Photo: Grant Triplow

Samantha Brick Photo: Grant Triplow

Expat Mum and Curry Queen wrote brilliant pieces about how they could totally identify with her. I can't fight it any longer. Like the lemming I am -  albeit a hot and fabby one - I have to join in.

This is how people see me.

Source

And this is how I looked first thing this morning. Sooo similar right? Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful!

Picture of me this morning

I was almost tempted not to put up this candid pic as I know you, your spouses, your children and your pets will be using it as a screensavers. 

I have long learned to accept those many compliments that come my way. A couple of examples:

*"After breastfeeding four kids, your boobs look like poached eggs on hangers." That good? Honestly people -  who doesn't like poached eggs! And hangers? They are so blimin' useful!

*"You'll never be any great oil painting - best you pay attention at school." This was said to me when I was 12. I'm just glad I did because after eight years at university and three degrees I got to be a stay-at-home Mum being bossed around by four little folk. Re-sult!

*"I'm afraid you've got the typical middle-aged flat pancake arse." Again with the yummy breakfast food that everyone loves! Keep it coming!

*"Your teeth are very buck because of mis-mating. Small chin, big mouth and large teeth. A challenge for us." This from a dentist when I was ten years old. It doesn't get much better than that! "Mismating" - I'm sooo special!

I won't go on, you're already seething with envy I can tell. And now - here are some beauty tips for the rest of you guys. 

1. Don't let your kids put the "Photo Booth" app onto your computer because it identifies every wrinkle you have. You will not look as rested, and frankly, as stunning as I do in the above photo.

2. Do not buy an i-pad. The screen is too shiny and like Photo Booth will reflect every wrinkle and imperfection you have.

3. Slant all mirrors backwards. Yes: back,  back,  back.  And stand well away. In the other room is good. I have always found this is a true reflection of how incredibly slim, long and vein-free my legs are.

You see, I'm not only bloody gorg, but giving and kind as well. Mother Theresa meets Scarlett Johansson comes to mind. Read and weep.

Attack of the 80's

Yello! Neon, crystal rock-hunting, all-in-one ski suits and Cyndi Lauper tunage while you're waiting for the lifts.... It was all about the 80's this weekend when we skied Squaw in Tahoe. So much so that my friend Anne and I alternated between called each other "dude" and "foxy" which cracked us up endlessly. (I know, it doesn't take much...)

Snowboard on the slopes of Squaw

Pink and graphic everything at Squaw

I had always thought the 80's was my time. My enormously boomfy King Tut-like hair was having it's moment, so I could, er,  Walk Like an Egyptian. (Nowadays I have my hair straightened with enough chemicals to kill a boatload of cockroaches) Old photos reveal though that my big bangs (fringe) and bigger brows were not as timeless as I'd hoped...

1985 in Wellington NZ, me at bottom right

Fast forward 30 years to Squaw... I was totally stoked to spot this veritable dude who was tailgating (an American term for picnicking from the back of your car - how 80's!) smoking a ciggy and drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon (80's!) having just returned from a crystal-hunting trip (80's!) down the valley (80's!)

Knarly tree at Squaw...

....and knarly tailgating dudes..

On Friday night I wore my pale pink 80's-esque "pumps"out to dinner (high court shoes we would call them) as part of my pearls and pink bow-tie Margaret Thatcher outfit.  Don't know if Mags would have worn the aaaqua trou though "course you would, you saucy minx" (quick: which movie is that line from?)

My pale pink 80's pumps...

I originally bought these pumps to go with a vintage dress for my 50th birthday next week. Theme: 1962. But they are so 80's too! As is my very weird pose again the wall (okay now I'm making up the 80's references) Btw, the heels turned out to be killers, as in killing!!!

Weird pose is definitely more delivery ward than bodacious babe who gets the bohunk (quick: which movie was bohunk from?) I blame the art direction of the eight year old photographer...Cy!

How was the 80's for you?

Celebrity Obsession is Good For You!

Who dated Gwyn, then married a Jen? Selective celebrity memory... how do I know everything about the stars involved, but I can't remember what carpool I'm driving this afternoon?

Did you know Jake Gyllenhall got his first driving lesson from family friend Paul Newman? That George Clooney sometimes sleeps in the walk-in closet of his LA mansion because "all the rooms are too light." That Angie's black velvet Versace right-leg revealer was reminiscent of Jennifer Aniston's Valentino two years ago?

Me and my thoughts...Photoshop by Harley, 14

Somehow I do know that. You see I have a photographic memory. Unfortunately, not for anything that can make me any money, afford me any respect, be of use to society or aid world peace. I have an steel trap memory for celebrity trivia.

The more obscure and trivial the drivel, the better I remember it. Jennifer Garner rode the Disney Small World ride days before giving birth to her son Samuel and bought a pretzel for her daughter Violet. Embarrassing that I know that - how do I know that?

I also know everything about reality stars. The incredible thing is: I don't watch reality shows, I have never seen Jersey Shore, Housewives or any of them... So how do I know that Snooki confirmed baby rumours by tweeting she has a "mini meatball in the oven," that last night they had a pickle fight. How did I pick up that condimental nonsense?

Instead of retaining all this, can't I replace it with dignified and useful stuff like: the steps on how to compact all my emails, add a home phone number to my contacts or use the convection part of our oven properly. Or how about the words to T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land? The words to any song? And yes, the  carpool I'm driving today?

I suppose I could argue that this ability to discuss random celebrities in terrifying and lengthy detail helps The Village. In fact it's an anthropological necessity. About 15 years ago when I was working as a journalist in London I wrote an article that when we actually lived in small villages we had loads of common experiences because we lived, worked and played together. Now friends and workmates live at least an hour from each other so they are together less, have fewer shared friends and fewer shared experiences to discuss. Enter the shared knowledge of celebs who can be discussed safely and till the cows come home, helping forge and further friendships, according to British social anthropologists.


There ends the Justification Call. What's the most obscure thing do you know about a celeb?

(And the answer to first question: Ben Affleck and Brad Pitt...yeah, easy one)

Berlinale: The Kids Are Alright

My official role here at the Berlin Film Festival is chaperone to Ngaa, the subject of my sister Pietra's documentary, Maori Boy Genius. This is pretty ironic, as Ngaa at 17 is more mature and sorted than I will ever be. The depths of my immaturity has been plumbed in the last couple of days. But What Evs, peeps. LOL. Smiley face icon.

The Berlin bear and me doing yoga, Pietra at right

Yes, I just had to yell out "Brad! Brad! Brad! Over Here!" when he and Angie arrived for the premiere of In The Land of Blood and Honey which Angie wrote, produced and directed (seriously girlfriend you need to get off the couch and do more...) And climb over the wall and round the fence yelling to the bodyguard: "Take a photo for me, please, please!" And press my nose to the window and yell at Brad again. Oh guys, you could be my friends, you just have to know me. 

Me and Brad! Brad! Brad!

Seated at the premiere I physically had to stop myself approaching Brad who was sitting just a couple of rows behind us, so there might have been a bit of fake stretching of arms with quick clicks of the camera in his direction, photos all blurry. Angie must have been feeling sorry for me as stood right by me to make her entrance. Hey girlfriend, I could reach out and touch you (but not in a creepy way...)

Hi!

You might also be noticing that I am wearing a huge faux fur coat. Panicked by reports of lowest temps in the history of Germany, just as I left the house I grabbed the coat I wore for Halloween when I was Margot from The Royal Tenenbaums. (coat in garage, bit musty but few spritzes of perfume and she was good to go). Not sure what look I was aiming for: arty farty unexpected? Not Fozzie Bear vacays in Florida which was suggested. How playful though!

Do you ever have Up In The Air envy of those who roll through airports cool and collected with perky hand luggage.  In an attempt to launch myself into that "handluggage only" elite I took only one small-ish bag. Overfilled. The fact is, associating with Fozzie Bear pushed me into circus territory and consequently my bagged was weighed. Sorry airline dude, my bad: 14lbs, not 6lbs as I might have just told you.

Needless to say, the stares and smirks continued all through customs and on the streets of Berlin.

Ngaa, Pietra and me trying on Russian hats

Last night was the world premiere of Maori Boy Genius which is competing in the Generation section, for films about children and young people. The 1000-seat theatre was sold out and many of the audience cried at Ngaa's story. (More on that on Friday) The competition is judged by children and this week Pietra and Ngaa will know they've done well if the kids in the audience stamp their feet loudly at the end. Don't you just love it when the right people are in charge?

Travel Is Just So Glamorous

A very belated happy New Year to you all! We're back in Oakland and we won't be hopping on a plane for many a month. Shame, because air travel is just sooo glamorous. It's exactly like the photo of this new TV show, Pan Am (which I've never seen, but friends say is ghastly, sexy, sexist or boring, depending on their world view).

Pan Am

Below is a picture of our arrival at Auckland airport in New Zealand two weeks ago. At right is me - my feet and legs always swell up to twice their normal size and stay like that for a day. For some reason the photo actually doesn't do justice to the enormity of my cankling. Babies scream and grown men weep. The middle person is Cy, seven, who somehow arrived with only one shoe (but still carrying his two-day old school lunch of spag bol, as you might remember.) And the person on the left is my sister, Sharon, who met us at the airport at 5.30am and was wearing one of each of her sneakers...

Arrival: my sister Sharon, Cy, and me, Big Foot

The huge legs have everything to do with ignoring the Joan Collins old school mode of embarking gracefully and presumably slender-legged: on the plane move the legs and feet continually, don't eat the plane food (not even a salty cracker, especially not a salty cracker) don't touch the alcohol and sip water continuously.

Just as I was shoveling down a plateful of beef bog with a chaser of the kids' cheese on whitemeat meals, finishing with wafer-thin choccies, I suddenly remember. "Joan, Joan... Why have I forsaken you?"

Me and Tallulah on the way home

And how very much I could have achieved on that 12 hour flight.  As I've said before, that plane ride could have lent me time to write that elusive novel (about what? who knows...) or at least address the 100 "Happy New Year! Joy!" cards we failed to send before boarding.  Or at least at least, watch some of those improving arthouse movies I've read so much about in the New Yorker. Instead there's loads of staring into space for me and blobbing mouth-wide-open at any of the blockbusters with weddings in them. Contributing to the fuggy air, tinged with the all-too-human movements of humanity. Yes, our seats are next to the toilets again.

Any glamorous travel moments in your weekend?

Three Day Rule

My friend has a theory about staying with family. The first day is golden and everyone is delighted to see you. The second day your family starts treating you like a child. The third day you start acting like one.

At my Sixties party in Ohope Beach: Pietra, Mum, Sharon and me

Forewarned is forearmed and I'm making absolutely sure this doesn't happen during our stay with family in New Zealand. No siree.

Of course after the euphoria of the first day and as the eldest sister I felt it my duty to give them the benefit of my hard-won wisdom. Be selfish not to, really. To Sharon I've kindly and subtly dropped a few parenting tips: "You know, you might want to..." My sister Pietra now knows my views on the correct arch of eyebrow, bronzing creams and blush. Plus best wall colours for their homes, lovely ways to cook fish and how they could help New Zealand get back on track as the surprise superpower in Oceania.

 

First Day: Me, Pietra and Sharon in Auckland

It's been a tiny bit hurtful to witness their reactions; either snorting, rolling their eyes or, even more stunningly, simply ignoring me. Last night Sharon didn't even lower her magazine when I offered her some advice about her career. (She's a business journalist for radio, but I just wonder if she should have followed her passions as a ballerina. Still time.)

Plus they keep sitting too close to me on my side of the couch.

Okay I've had enough: "You bloody stink bums - get outta here!!!  I'm telling Muuuum!"

The Iron Lady Cracked

On Saturday we were invited to a young person's party in Ocean Beach, San Francisco. By "young" I mean that some persons were under the age of 45. It was a disco party with a DJ arriving at 10pm. No way would we last until the dancing, but I tried for a Studio 54 look anyway. Or rather, Someone's Mum at Studio 54.  My pink floppy bow shirt, arrquaar high-waisted trou and faux fur jacket.

Me and domestic and disco goddess, Chaz, trying on her fascinators

Did I hear someone call out: "Oooh, the Iron Lady-on-Crack!" Is that better or worse than the "June-Cleaver-on-Crack!" I sometimes get for my love of floppy-bow shirts and bright colours.

Our host was the fantastic Chaz who has collections of: wigs, jewelery that drapes around your head, feather earrings and fascinators. We tried on some of her fascinators. Then exhausted, us oldies settled into the comfy sofas near the dessert table and talked about cholesterol levels and various aches and pains. Periodically one of us would rise to fill our plates with some of the 100lb of ham and turkey Chaz had cooked that day. And sometimes a young 'un would approach us and talk about their art installation at Burning Man which was very nice indeed.

There is a certain amount of madness (and oldness) creeping into my life and it has bubbled to the surface lately.

1. Mad thing one: I love all these foods below: marshmallows, tinned tomato soup, tinned fruit, saltine  crackers with plastic cheese, rice pudding. Washed down with non-alcoholic beer because I'm trying not to drink so much (not that I have a problem mind you...oh-ho-no!) But all in one meal? Yes, this was Thursday dinner.

All the foodgroups for dinner tonight!

2. Mad thing two: Sat morning I booked a 9am haircut for all four kids, at the same time as their piano lesson. (To add to the fun, one child was at a birthday sleepover and another had basketball.) Instead of canceling anything, I drove maniacally back and forth between our house and the hairdresser for three hours.

Haircut kids arrive home

3. Mad thing three: I was devastated to hear that my bum shot was not one of the three holiday pics selected to screen on Jumbotron in Times Square over the holidays. But what was I thinking? Below is one of the winning shots...It's my friend Lesley and her fam. Lesley made the costumes herself. Say. No. More.

Need to look a little more festive, peeps....

My Jumbotron friend took pity on me, apparently my bum may be re-considered in an "Awkward Photo" campaign.

Pondering my weekend I mused: "Am I going mad? Madder-than-a-meat-axe kind of mad?"
Friend said: "Jody, don't you see? You're not mad. It just that you're nearly 50 - you're started to go through... um, menopause."

Oh, so not mad then.... Just menopause....Menooopa-uas-sa!-sa!-sagagh!

Your Bum Here

I just got an email from a friend saying her company is looking for photos to put on JumboTron in Times Square. They wanted real-life family holiday photos - did we have any good ones? My mind ran through all the pictures we've taken of the kids sitting astride logs on a beach smiling and pretending to like each other. Oh, too expected... What photos did I want on Jumbotron, a screen three stories high and two stories wide.  Of course! I sent them this. It's me zip-lining in Sayulita, Mexico.

Manuel at right: They're not paying me enough for this...

This is a no-brainer - who wouldn't want their 49-year-old bum projected onto a screen that'll make it the size of four football fields? To be seen by one million tourists a day - visiting from Norway to Nebraska.

I haven't heard back as to whether they are going to use my arse shot. Clearly, they'd be fools not to. But peeps, if there is one thing I've learned in life: there's no accounting for tastes when it comes to art direction. Kevin, the hubster, makes a calender every year which gets sent out to all our lucky rellies (relatives).  This shot was last year's November. Well imagine our surprise when we discovered some of the rellies had ripped out that month or put post-it notes over the art work.

I also send her these time lapse shots so it could be used as a series. But really I think the first pic stands on its own - don't you?

Is there a glamour shot you'd like to share with the whole of Times Square?

(We've just done the random draw of this month's Giveaway of Tocca sun-screen towelettes. The winner is - tada! - Ada of Classiq, a fabulous fashion blogger who lives in Bucharest! Ada, mail your address to me at jbrettkelly@gmail.com and I'll send it right away.)

Friday Giveaway: Damages

Brutal knivings, dove-grey Chanel handbags, senseless sexual encounters, dealing with double-crossing corrupt businessmen, more murders. That's what I've been doing the last couple of weeks...watching Damages.

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If I was a good mother and a decent blogger I would be writing about my four children's first day back at school. But putting in hard-core sessions until 1am watching Damages has left me drifting through the days in a telly hangover.

Back To School.... now when was that, how did it go? I have a hazy memory of three of my kids -  boys I think -  heading off somewhere. Did they walk or did I drive them? One child, a 10-year-old girl who calls herself Tallulah, seems to be still at home waiting for her new school to start, a shadowy figure wandering the rooms. I even attended the myriad of Class Information nights and morning Meet and Greet coffee and croissants, but who knows what was said, what was done...

You see: I had to prioritise. And the thing that has filled my time, my thoughts, my very being is Damages.

Damages is a legal drama about the world of New York City litigation, following the "turbulent lives of Patty Hewes, the nation's most revered and reviled high-stakes litigator, and her bright ambitious protégé Ellen Parsons."

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Patty Hewes is played by Glen Close, with subtle glimpses of her spurned bunny boiler in Fatal Attraction and the fan-fluttering manipulative Marquise in Dangerous Liaisons. What is it about Glen Close's sparkling eyes and secretive close-mouthed smile that reveals so little and promises so much drama and intrigue? Is she pure evil or simply a flawed advocate of the underdog? And the beautiful Ellen Parsons  - played by the Aussie Rose Byrne - is she truly sweet or as corrupt as Patty herself?

Another treat is to see them spar against Ted Danson, who with his grey "hair" bolstered by infinitely better hair plugs than he previously sported, plays a dirty corporate dog. And the fantastically ever-creepy William Hurt, Patty's old love and the man who seems to be hiding something. (Hmm...also a closed-lip smiler.)

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These matters have somewhat obsessed me over the last few weeks. And, umm...I might have let a few things go...

One evening Jackson, 11, came into the TV room wailing: "Cy just deleted all of my book report!!!"
Me, staring straight ahead: "How do you know it was Cy?'
Jackson: "The screen was on Angel by Shaggy -  Cy's favourite song!"(Which, by the way, is sexist and stupid and no attentive mother would let seven-year-old Cy watch it.)
Me: "Please step outside, I'm terribly busy, I can't deal with this now."

Another entreaty from Harley, 13, as he heads off to catch the 7.30am bus to his new high school:  "Please, please Mum, could you do some grocery shopping! Please! There is nothing for my lunch again!"

The good news is that watching Patty Hewes with her 17-year-old son Micheal makes you feel like a fabulous mother. Her son despises and fears her.

Michael: You were right. I was playing games with you. I was very angry, and I was acting out.

Patty: Acting out? You sent me a hand grenade and almost killed your stepfather.

My "Damages Friend" Lesley, and I have filled our in-boxes, barbecues, dinners out and standing on the playground with analysing the relationship between Patty and Ellen. Over the weekend our back-and-forth "doyouthink..." induced other 'friends' to splutter into their margaritas appalled: "Jody! Lesley! These are not real people! They are characters on TV!" Lesley and I shook our heads and smiled our best conspiratorial closed-lip Patty Hewes smile. They don't know, they are not one of us. But that's been part of the commitment - ignoring the detractors, the scoffers.

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When our friend Rina was just here from London she was hooked. She visited for only four days but two nights were devoted to Damages. "Uggh!" she said after a four-hour session one night: "I feel emotionally violated." But we pressed on, clocking in another four hours the next night.

It was something Kevin and I could do together, though truthfully his commitment wavered at times...he had a job to go to in the morning. One night he broke down: "I can't go on!" he cried; "I've got to go to bed. And..." he added: "no more tomorrow night - Patty Hewes is giving me nightmares." We pushed through it.

But now? Now it's over, we can get on with our lives. Stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, talking to the kids, putting on make-up (necessary as I have multi blemishes from excessive lying on the sofa) doing the grocery shopping.

Yes, it's over. Until Season Four...

Today's First Friday Giveaway is the first three seasons of Damages. To enter, you need to be a Follower or Subscriber and leave a comment. You get an extra point for each if you Facebook and-or Twitter the offer. The winner will be drawn - randomly - next Friday 9 September.

What's your current telly obsession?

Riff'n'Rina

There are friends whom you haven't seen for years, but you pick up exactly where you left off.  Riffing for hours. Rina, also a Kiwi, is such a friend. This weekend she dramatically decided to fly over from London where she lives, while listening to a marathon of speeches at a hospital retirement party. As soon as I picked her up from the airport she told me about the final speech. One doctor said the retiring woman had been a perfect nurse: "Hard-working, pleasant...and fat." Rina always arrives well-armed with bon mots and bizarre anecdotes.

Mike, Me, Rina and Kenny

I met Rina 22 years ago in a hotel in Cairo. We were both backpacking through Egypt and at that stage I was traveling by myself.  We bumped into each other again climbing Mt Sinai. She was with bickering sisters and fleeing three randy Israelis vying for her favour and was relieved to have a buffer.

Rina, her entourage and I at top Mt Sinai

We met again back in London where I was working as a journalist and she as an anesthesiologist.  She was different from the rest of the Kiwi crowd - she had wheels, a Fiat Panda, and on several weekends we blatted off for mini-breaks in the wilds of Britain, ostensibly to ride horses. We both envisaged ourselves galloping over the green hills, the wind blowing through any strands of hair which escaped our black velvet riding hats.  As I've said before in another horsey post, Rina sighed: "All I want to say is: 'Whoah there my beauty!'"( in true Bronte style). Instead we were heaved onto farty old nags who could barely move one step without tugging their heads down and grabbing another gobful of grass.

Rina and I horse trekking in Wales

She was there when Kevin and I first met and we would frequent a Chelsea nightclub in which Kevin had a tiny investment. This was a place where Chaka Khan's sister, Taka, was the top-billed act. (You didn't know her?) We turned up one night to be told the kitchen had run out of food which was just as well because the cutlery had disappeared.  It was no surprise to learn the barman was an chronic alcoholic and the manager a gambler and the club closed it's doors.

Later I persuaded Rina to be in one of my articles for London Evening Standard about being single in London.  I don't write the headlines but you can image how thrilled she was to be smiling under this particular one. "Bright, single, 30-plus and...looking for a man." Oh, she was so happy. JK(Just kidding) as Cy would say, she was apoplectic.

Evening Standard, 2 October 1996

Once the constant JK-ing at her hospital died down and the rash of letters from sundry oddballs and stalkers trailed off, I wrote another article, this time on single men in London. "Desperately seeking someone single."But the previous headline flashed up again. Rina was still horrified but ruefully confided it was one of her most widely-read publications as a doctor.

One year later I contacted the five women to see if they were still single. "No comment" said Rina, hoping that would be the end of it. But there was that headline again. Happy ending though, phhew, she is married to a Kiwi architect and has a three-year-old girl called Pashmina. Hmm... maybe time to do yet another follow-up.

Her four-day visit here was an opportunity to be a tourist again in Oakland and San Francisco and we walked the length of the city for four hours, from the greasy Pier 52 to open Chrissy Field with views of the Golden Gate Bridge and back to North Beach with smells of pizza, garlic and hazy revellers from last night's comedy shows.

Chrissy Fields

Rina in North Beach

Rina soon ascertained that the Bay Area prides itself on being a gastronomic haven, quality local produce served with passion and occasion. So that evening while friends Kenny'n'Mike treated us to a meal at Oakland's Camino restaurant, she proudly claimed that despite being a busy mother in central London she plucked the first crop of her tomatoes this summer.  Kenny quizzed her - which variety? - heirloom..? Those ones from the Black Sea? "Just cherry, basic cherry, but slightly orange," she replied visibly miffed that her only organic produce story had been upstaged so early in the evening.

Rina described our larder (pantry) as the size of a  "small aircraft hangar" and was incredulous that I've replaced cooking with "assembling." Then she admitted these days she merely "dipped" and did not even warm her pre-prepareds.

A dipping and assembling Barbie

Coming down to breakfast after a rowdy barbecue the night before, Rina found herself facing a kitchen littered with 15 wine bottles, two sliced un-eaten watermelon, pizza dotting the TV room and dirty plates piled up.  It was first day back to school and Cy, seven, was packing a lunch of left-over chocolate-covered pretzels with a face still painted from the night before. Then she was treated to a full-on fight between Jackson, 12, and Cy, culminating in Jackson whacking Cy with a Whiffle-ball bat.

A Whiffle ball dispute (surely the worst kind). It wasn't even 7.30am and I'm sure Rina was very ready to return home to her small but perfectly-formed cherry tomatoes.

Have you riffed with the Rina in your life lately?

BritMum

Last week I was lucky enough to meet one of the women at the forefront of blogging in Britain. Susanna Scott is author of A Modern Mother and co-founder of BritMums, a network of 3,000 parent bloggers with an aggregated audience of 10 million. She started blogging three years ago and has been ranked by Cision as a top 10 mum blogger.

Susanna and me in SF's Chinatown 

Chinatown

Susanna, 46, lives in a small town near Newbury, England with her Scottish husband, an IT sales director and three girls (ages 6, 7 and 9). Two years ago she founded BritMums with Jennifer Howze, former Times "Alpha Mummy" columnist. BritMum connects bloggers and holds conferences in London.

We met through a mutual friend as Susanna is from the East Bay, California. She returns for six weeks every summer for some sun and to see her parents. We ate chow mien at Far East Cafe in San Francisco's Chinatown, then strolled to the park around the corner so her daughters could play while I bombarded her with questions.
 
Surprising thing about Susanna? In person she is gentle, incredibly helpful and low-key. And, endearingly, though she attends loads of premieres and parties, she seldom recognises celebrities.

1. How and why did you get started?
I started blogging three years ago because, I joke, it was cheaper than therapy. I had three children in less than three years, and two were premature. I left my job as an IT marketing director to be a full-time mum and I missed a part of myself. Blogging gave me back my voice.

2. What do you think is the perfect blog post? Number of words, number of pictures, frequency, topic? 
I’d don’t have favourites, everyone’s style is different and you either click with it or you don’t. And sometimes you are in the mood for different types of posts – funny, poignant, thoughtful, whimsical – you can find it all online.

3. Your most popular blog post?
My most popular blog post was one I wrote about our Polish cleaner. It was short, about 300 words, but has been stumbling around blogosphere for the past three years.

4. What is the best way to get more readers?
Join a community like BritMums, BlogHer, etc to find like-minded bloggers. Also, be a reader (and commenter). Do not despair, you WILL find your tribe, they are out there.

5. You mentioned you no longer have a nanny. How do you make it work? 
Erm, not very well. We have lots of playdates and some part-time help. I have nightmares of being asked to a meeting last minute and not being able to make it because I have to drop off at an after-school club.

6. I notice you don't post pictures of your children. Why is this? And what other things will you not do?
I don’t publish that many pics of my kids, I feel that I can control my privacy, and should give them the same option. I don’t write about sex, I’d get into trouble.

7. What should bloggers expect to get out of conferences?
The best part of blogging conference is connecting with so many people that you know online. Also, the energy and the atmosphere is contagious.

8. What are your favourite blogs? I usually hang out with expats, like The Potty Diaries, Expat Mum, Nappy Valley Girl in New York and of course your blog!

9. Sometimes it takes me forever to do a blog post. How long do you take?
If I get stuck on a blog post I just figure it was not meant to be.

10. Can you make any money from blogging?
You can make pocket money, and supplemental income, though only a select few with ever earn enough to pay their mortgage. I think you should blog because you love it, and anything else that comes out of it is a bonus. I also think that blogging can be a stepping stone to other things, like writing contracts, etc. But do it because you love it.

Thanks Susanna, see you when you're next in the Bay Area.

Now, gentle readers, how would you answer these questions?

Justin-Mila or Justinila?

Are Justin and Mila secretly dating?  Or is that just publicity for their new movie Friends With Benefits? And, by the way, will Snooki appear on Dancing With the Stars?

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I'm so sorry... this is a naughty ploy to make you look. I won't do it again, promise. My actual subject today is a fundraiser for Oakland Mayor Jean Quan at our house on Monday night. She will be talking about the future of Oakland. Fair enough, police pensions and budget cuts are a tough thing to hear about. But it should be a nice evening in our living room, mixing with neighbours over a glass of wine and dinner. It's a "unique opportunity" (sorry that was a bit much) to ask Jean Quan the tough questions or even about the potholes outside your house.

But we just can't get people to come. We were hoping for 50 to 70 people, raising about $5,000. So far we have 15 yes's,  45 no's, 1 maybe and 110 not replied.

How are we going to do it? I would love your advice.

You might have met Jean here and here.  She is a hard-working do-er, a "civil servant" not a politician, who has given back 25% of her salary, $46,000, because of the budget crisis. I wanted to host this evening as Jean was left with a $100,000 debt from her campaign. I really think in the future each politician, local or national, should be given a specific campaign fund.  Though this would have to be funded by taxes, it would help eliminate the incidence of politicians working to serve the interests of their campaign backers. We are asking for a donation of $100 per couple for drinks and dinner at our house, Jean Quan will talk and people will have the opportunity to chat with her and voice concerns.

But I get it. I totally get it. People want to give their spare money to charities. And then we are asking people to come out on a Monday night - down-time with family or alone is prized and let's face it - the lure of relaxing in front of "Million Dollar Decorators" is pretty strong.

Firstly we sent out an Evite to 160 people using this recent photo of Jean (far left) with Michelle Obama in Oakland. We wrote:

"Please come to our house to meet Mayor Jean Quan. This is a great opportunity to meet the Mayor, express your views and ask tough questions. Jean will talk about the recent budget negotiations and her plans for Oakland. We will provide drinks and a light supper"

Photo via Lailan Huen on Facebook

Using Evite may have been a mistake:  efficient but so ubiquitous as to be seen as impersonal, a bit spam-y and easy to ignore when sent out to large numbers.  We didn't "hide" the replies, so I suspect the more "No's" we received, maybe the easier it is to say "No."

We then decided to distribute a flier using this photo.

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Kevin and our friend Sally took about 50 fliers around the neighbourhood. Tallulah, 10, and Cy, 7, accompanied Kevin on the trail, Cy bouncing his ball and talking constantly, Tallulah singing and cycling. So far one reply.

Cy, Kevin and Tallulah handing out flyers

We have three days left - what should we do? Should we have used a different photo, different wording?