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Where do I begin? Marty and I were J-dating and we got pregnant on our fifth date, the first time we had sex, after we had an amazingly romantic prix fix dinner at Lucques and some very strong Blueberrytinis at Hyde. Ok fine, we were really slumming it on Chicken Caesars at C.P.K.'s, Beverly Center and it was our first date. But it felt like we were already a 'we' since we had been J-vibing big time for over two weeks, Mercury was out of retrograde and Marty had just invited me to Passover at his mother's house. Talk about almost love.

Marty is the kind of guy any mom would call a catch. In other words, a Major Mensch. Different from the 'artists' I used to date, fall in love with, obsess over, stalk. He's a Financial Planner. So refreshing! Not only does he have a reason to wake up in the morning, but a place to go besides the 7:30am AA meeting at the Lodge. Not to mention, a killer pension. His mother is hysterical that Baby is already 10-months-old and we haven't gotten married yet. Marty told her we're still trying to figure out details about the wedding. As in when and where and if. His parents want to have it at their time-share at the Marriot in Palm Desert but it's only available on Tuesdays through Fridays in July.

Pre-baby, I was a super BoHo, born and bred New York Hippie Jew. UGG Boots? I invented the reinvention. Some people called me a free spirit, up for anything, "open." My friends called me daily, "Em, you might want to think about settling down." I think they meant easy on the Hollywood party crashing for the swag bags, no more threesomes with industry power couples, and can you really afford six months in Tibet for that Yoga teacher training? I mean, New Years 2006? I was naked on a mountain top in Big Sur meditating with Theravada Buddhist Elders, chanting my personal mantra for the new year: 'Anything is Possible!' Which it so is! Because I wasn't looking for a husband, let alone a baby. I thought I had at least a little more time to find myself, become the best me I could be, okay, finally make it into the Whitney Biennial which seems to have eluded me and my performance based art since I got my MFA from UCLA ten years ago.

Being so immersed in the world of numbers, Marty doesn't really understand the life of an artist. I try to explain, big trees start underground. He doesn't get that even when I'm watching "Dancing With the Stars,' I'm working. It's all research.

Anyway, life post-baby? I thought I'd be one of those moms. Ya know, a Hot Mom. Back in my skinny jeans after three weeks, proud I was able to pull off a baby nap-time B.J. for hubby, with the 24-year-old barista at the Grove Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf still wanting to fuck me. Meanwhile, it's 4pm and I'm still in my robe. But somehow Baby manages to look terribly chic in head-to-toe La La Ling. So, you get the point. How am I doing in the world of new parenting? Tune into MOTHERHOODLUM and find out!