Confusion and Delay

I Remain Pure

2010-11-21T15:31:00.000-08:00

I'm happy to report that we made it through airport security this morning with our carry-on bags and our dignity. No scanning, no groping, not even so much as a handshake. Considering we were traveling with the most motley assortment of shit in the world, including an animatronic cat (DON'T ASK), I think we did pretty well. Gianni was even a little bummed that he didn't get to go through the scanner, and also pleased that his least favorite security machine ever, only known as The Puffer and only mentioned in fearful tones, has been retired for a security strategy that focuses less on puffs of air and more on genitalia.

Now relaxing in DFW airport, which resembles nothing so much as a gigantic Greyhound bus station. Mmmmm, urinal cake whiff....

I'm a Whore....for Convenience

2010-11-18T13:44:00.000-08:00

Here at the start of the holiday traveling season, there's a lot of uproar about the new TSA screening procedures. I have to admit I haven't studied them backward and forward, but the gist seems to be:

It's gonna take a whole lot longer to get through the god damned security line
There will be front and back body scanning
Upon refusal to submit to a body scan, there will be groping. Oh yes there will

While I don't welcome yet more delays in my air travel experience and I do think that these measures just add to the growing list of Things That Do Fuckall to Prevent Terrorist Attacks, I'm really a little perplexed and amused by the amount of outcry among people about the impropriety of the body scans and their bastard alternative, the expanded pat-down. There's are movement asking people to Opt Out of body scans and go for the pat-down or even break up with air travel altogether to protest these measures.

I've thought long and hard about this. And I've come to the conclusion that: I really don't care if the TSA sees me naked. I mean, really. It's not anything anyone hasn't seen before. And as far as someone getting off on my scanned image or about the world being able to tell it's me if it ends up on HOTTSCANSONLINE.com? Oh PLEASE. These image scans will be about as erotic as an x-ray or a health class filmstrip. So if some fat TSA creep wants to use the body scanner as his government-issue x-ray specs, whatevs. It's not enough to make me opt for the body search, which in my opinion has MORE risk for offending behavior. And as for the expanded searching, I'm perfectly capable of screaming bloody murder if there's a bad touch, and I encourage others to do so. It's within our rights--just ask Penn Jillette.

Am I REALLY going to drive 2000 miles to visit my parents as an alternative to flying? That may be your choice, but it ain't mine. (Yes, I know it's about larger principle, but if we become a cloistered, provincial nation that spends 2/3 of its vacation time numbing its butt on long car trips, the terrorists really have won.)

I'm not willing to forego air travel or raise a stink about scanners. But I AM willing to ask for concessions. Hey, TSA, how about if in exchange for a body scan, you let me and my family keep our fucking shoes on when we go through security? A chance to bypass the family goat rodeo that is security line shoe removal is worth a peep.

And if I let you get to second base in the pat-down, what say you let me take ALL of my hair and beauty products in my carryon instead of trying to wedge negligible amounts of a select few into a 1-quart baggie? Do you think I just get out of bed in the morning looking like this? It's takes a lot of work to look this good for you, TSA.

In all seriousness, I'm concerned with the usefulness of these tactics and where it will end. But at this point, not concerned enough to get bent out of shape for my Thanksgiving trip next week or any near-future travel I may have. HOWEVER-- if the TSA introduces airport shoe mirrors, I may have to raise an eyebrow.

Health Insurance 101

2010-11-17T14:06:00.000-08:00

Hey, Rep. Andy Harris. I hear you're having a little trouble understanding why government-run health insurance is a good idea. Mostly because you had to wait 3o whole days for your guaranteed government health coverage to kick in.

I feel your pain. Health insurance IS hard. Let me see if I can enlighten you about how health insurance works.

I'm a 41-year-old woman. I have two kids. I'm separated from my husband but he's still on our group health insurance policy. I have a few pre-existing conditions, but hey, by the time you hit 40, who hasn't? Luckily, mine have nothing to do with a shitty heart, ongoing cancer, high cholesterol, or any of those bad things that often require expensive treatment or drugs. In the big scheme of things, the only bad thing about them is that they do require treatment at all.

I left my job in April and am now enjoying a thriving freelance career. If business keeps going as is, and I keep working this hard, I'll be matching the salary I made at my old job. But of course, there's no subsidized health insurance.

We pay COBRA through my old employer. We pay $1450.34 a month. That's right. EVERY MONTH.

Why on earth would anyone do that? Well, here's why.

In a quest for even slightly cheaper health insurance, I just applied for individual health coverage. As part of that coverage, my kids could be added to my policy for a slightly higher premium. My husband, who has enough pre-existing conditions and expensive prescriptions that an underwriter can't possibly stamp HELL NO on his application fast enough, qualifies to be insured under Colorado's high-risk insurance pool. It's fairly reasonably priced and actually, the coverage is not that bad. If I were to be accepted for individual coverage by a provider, at the very worst our combined cost would be roughly half of what we currently pay for COBRA.

I submitted applications, answered hours of questions, facilitated the gathering of medical records, pieced together documents from 11 years and two cities, let the insurance company take a chunk of money out of my bank account for the first premium. These are all hoops that you have to jump through to even be considered for health insurance. I spent 30 minutes on the phone today tracking down medical records for a doctor that I haven't even seen since 2006, just so they could see evidence that I was 90 percent perfectly healthy during that time.

Let me reiterate: I exercise regularly. I wear sunscreen. My cholesterol, heart rate, and blood pressure are a cardiologist's wet dream. I control any health issues I have proactively with inexpensive medication and regular checkups. I've had exactly one surgery in my life. I have never smoked. I wear a seat belt. I don't eat white flour or refined sugar. I drink in moderation a few times a week. I have regular well-visit checkups. I've never had an abnormal pap smear. The last serious health issue I had was a one-time deal, 11 years ago, well past your statute of uninsurability. I have no allergies. I've never had a cavity.

And today, I was declined for health insurance. Why? Because of one pesky condition that requires (again, INEXPENSIVE) prescription treatment. Once again, people who control their health issues so they don't turn into bigger health issues get reamed.

Consequently, my perfectly healthy kids were declined for health insurance, too.

I'm eligible for the high-risk pool now. Which is good news. But here's the thing: I can't insure my kids. Because there is no rider in the high-risk pool for kids. And in response to the recent health care reform that went into effect, insurance companies would rather not insure kids at all, rather than being forced to ensure kids despite pre-existing conditions. Which, I repeat, my kids don't have.

So what are my options? Well, I could keep applying and applying for individual coverage, which is kind of like applying to get kicked in the nuts repeatedly. I could boot my husband off of COBRA and he could do Cover Colorado for a microscopically slightly cheaper total monthly cost. Always good for maintaining amicable relationships, and financial savings really doesn't balance out that cost. Or, and this is most likely what we'll do, we can stay on COBRA as-is. Which goes up next year to $1522.86. Of course, that will run out in a year or so. But then, I can always just give up my flexible, lucrative, satisfying freelance career and get a shit job so we can have the health coverage. LIVIN' THE DREAM, man.

Anyway, my little doctor Republican Congressman friend, THAT is how motherfuckin' health coverage works. Really, what's not to love? If you need me, I'm moving to Sweden.

Try not to catch a cold in the next 30 days.

Pulverizing the hand that feeds you

2010-11-10T21:30:00.000-08:00

Am I the only one out there who is irrationally afraid that when I stick my hand down a garbage disposal that's in off-mode, it's going to suddenly turn itself on, Amityville-style, and grind my hand into dog scraps?

I am? Okay, never mind then.

Roadrunner: For mature audiences only

2010-08-01T10:48:00.000-07:00

PG? Give me a fucking break!

I took the kids to the movies last night. I was expecting to only get some popcorn and a crappy feature film out of the bargain, but we were treated to something extra: a short cartoon beforehand and the knowledge that people have really lost their minds.

In good news, they've once again started showing Looney Toons shorts before the real movie. That's cool. But get this: after the trailers, they flashed onscreen that the next feature was rated PG. Okay, I thought. I get that. Cats and Dogs, could be a few mature themes about abandonment and dogs and cats living together that may cause kids to ask questions.

But then what followed was....a Roadrunner cartoon. And not even a particularly violent one. The coyote ran into some rocks, got run over by a few trucks, tried and failed to bungee down to the roadrunner as he ate some birdseed. The content was less offensive than your average Spongebob cartoon by a factor of 10.

Allow me to observe: you have GOT to be fucking kidding me. We are putting parental labels on ROADRUNNER CARTOONS now? Apparently I am supposed to sit down with my children before and after the cartoon and have a serious discussion about how you can't actually be slingshotted into a red rock by a semi-truck while a four-foot purple bird watches. Because you know, kids are MORONS.

When I was a kid, I watched approximately 23 hours of Looney Tunes cartoons a day. Yosemite Sam got his face blown off, Tweety got eaten, and let's not even go into the tragic hunting accidents and the fact that Elmer Fudd really needed to find another way to get food. I don't recall ever feeling the symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, or the need for grief counseling. And I'd say that despite constant viewing of cartoon violence, I'm only a mild sociopath today.

In contrast, after the movie, I was putting Tea to bed and read her Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. Now THAT'S a fucked-up story. Fear of being eaten by a lion, helplessness of being stuck as a rock and the nihilism of sitting motionless and dumb forever, the grief and pain of suddenly losing your only child, talk about mature themes. Yet that was one of my favorite kid books of all time. And one of Tea's too. Maybe she's unfazed because it pales in comparison to Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses, where an evil dutchess is slowly poisoning the king while she psychologically abuses Barbie and her 11 sisters. Yeowch. And fairy tales, and mythology, blah blah blah. It's all there. But they're not afraid.

You know what I was afraid of as a kid? Assholes, that's what. And my grandparents' dank dark basement with the creepy jumping bugs. And the idea that someone could push a button and launch missiles and blow us all to smithereens. Real stuff that could actually affect me.

So thanks for the warning, MPAA. If my kids decide to order a rocket pack from Acme and some birdseed and move to Arizona, I'll be sure to have The Talk. But until then I'll give them a little credit that they can distinguish between real life and Looney Tunes.

More Dumb Fun on the YouTubes

2010-07-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

I'm not sayin' YOU are batshit stupid for blindly running out and buying the iPhone 4. Or maybe I am. At any rate, this is pretty fucking funny.

There's a rebuttal, too (there are actually a ton of these things out there, I think incongruous, foul-mouthed Xtra Normal movies may be the Hitler meme of the new decade). But it's not as funny.

Once you get done cursing the crap wireless or exercising the Phone Death Grip or whatever it is you iPhone 4 users do, check it out.

Indiana--finally trendy

2010-07-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

Go Big Red

You can't swing a bunch of heirloom beets these days without hitting a site, a blog, an article or an advocacy group dedicated to the joys of locally grown, organic food. It's exhausting. I mean, who doesn't love tasty vegetables that you know are the product of some kindly farmer's hard work and emotional investment. There's something about buying your vegetables at a market stand from the folks who grew them that makes them taste better than the ones you rescue from under the fake thunderstorm in the Safeway produce aisle.

But a trip to the San Francisco Ferry Plaza market or the Boulder Farmer's Market is a journey through Pretentiousville. The self-righteous yuppies, hippies, and hipsters, oy. The prices, double oy. It's enough to make you want to tackle Alice Waters and beat her to death with Michael Pollan. Love-hate doesn't even begin to describe my relationship with the upscale town farmer's market.

But this weekend I went back to my roots. Literally. I was back home (again) in Indiana and realized something. For the first time in like, EVER, Indiana is cool. The buzz is all about locally grown, community supported, sustainable agriculture and the whole country is trying to make it happen. And this is where it all started. In terms of food, everyone wants to be Indiana.

I walked through my hometown farmer's market and thought, now THIS is a freakin' farmer's market. People grow stuff and sell it here not because it's trendy, and not because it's correct--it's because people GROW SHIT here. They always have. And they can't help it--whatever you stick in the ground here is gonna grow knee-high by July and yield a bumper crop of goodness. There are tables and tables of juicy beefsteak tomatoes, giant roasting ears of corn, pints full of shiny wild blackberries, and let's not even talk about the homemade cheese, beans, zucchini, oh my god I have to go lie down. And you know who is selling them? AMISH PEOPLE, that's who. I defy you to think of anything more realz than homegrown produce sold by Amish ladies.

And everything costs like three dollars. BAM!

No one dogs their home state more than I do (I mean come on), but I have to admit there's a certain satisfaction to watching upscale people pour lots of time, effort, money and activism into trying to live and eat like my peeps have for a couple hundred years. I mean, both of my parents grew up raising chickens and growing backyard vegetables--mostly because if they didn't, they'd fucking starve. And I've taken it for granted for so long. Well, Indiana, I have to give this round to you. Keep on growing, and show the rest of the country what REAL tomatoes and sweet corn taste like.

Knock it off

2010-07-07T08:05:00.000-07:00

Every ad concept has its day. As a writer in the advertising and marketing bidness and a viewer of stuff, I'm here to say this: All those ads where people say or email or tweet something, only to have a truck show up at their door and transform their lives with product/money/conversion to the Right Side of consumer preference? Their day was some overcast Wednesday in the late 70s, when Ed McMahon still had a pulse and wasn't broke.

And yet we got two guys in a van ignoring the NO SOLICITORS sign from several agencies who can (and have) done better. This year CB+P did it with Domino's:

And then Wheat Thins came along, courtesy of Escape Pod:

I just spent some time checking out the advertising winners at Cannes. I gotta say, there is a bunch of cool stuff out there. But this concept? Not it. Not new, and never really that interesting in the first place. But wait, you say! It works! And this time it's different! Because we incorporate The Twitters! And skywriters! Um, yeah.

Plus, can anyone really top Publisher's Clearing House pulling up in the good times van with a giant million-dollar check for housewives all over mid-America? Never! Don't even try! I mean, I'm sure Claudia is happy to know that Domino's sucks marginally less now and Tabitha is now tiling her bathroom with Wheat Thins, but compared to a million bucks and some flowers from a marginal celebrity? Uh-unh.

Sometimes it does work. When Conan O'Brien picked one ordinary person to follow on Twitter, that was fairly awesome as a one-off. The only other way I've seen this done cleverly in recent times is this year's season's greeting from Mother, a smaller agency in London, New York, and a few other cool places. Basically, they played Nigerian prince for a day and sent out an email to their clients, partners and other supporters saying they were giving away $10,000 to one person. All that person had to do was respond with three bits of information--including, yes, their banking details. One guy answered. Then stuff happened. It's all here:

Yeah, maybe it's about as real as my hair color. But, like my hair color, it's bright and it makes me happy. And whether real or bogus, someone deserving gets 10 grand. That's always real.

But in general? Park the van, stop knocking and find a new schtick.

That's Entertainment

2010-06-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about Funemployment is being able to hang out more with my kids. After having to basically ignore them for 6-12 months for the sake of my stoopid job, I figured that when I quit, my kids deserved something for the pain. So I vowed to take each of them away for a week, just me and them. A few weeks ago, I took my 5-year-old daughter to live it up in NYC for a week. My daughter came out of the birth canal with jazz hands--as you can only imagine, her natural reaction to the Big Apple was, "I WANT TO LIVE HERE. NOW." It was a fabulous trip for all involved. I have many good friends in NY, most of them with daughters around the same age. It was a time of pink dresses, good coffee, great bagels, and BFFs.

My son is 9, and a little more discriminating. I told him he could pick anywhere he wanted to go. His choice? Seattle. Why? I'm not really sure. Something to do with the Space Needle. And iCarly. And the Monorail that only goes about 1 mile, then turns around and comes back. But who am I to argue with a trip to a gorgeous place with delicious food, awesome wine and nice people, whose fatal flaw is that it rains ALL THE FUCKING TIME? I'm game.

We are on day 4 of the trip and it's been great. I tried to hit all of the tourist destinations in the first few days, and now we're working on the more fun stuff, like meandering around neighborhoods, poking around in weird stores and today's adventure, taking the ferry to nowhere in particular and then back again. In other words, stuff that I like. I think it has been a resounding success. Evidence? Tonights dinner.

We were tired, so we went to the place across the street from our hotel. Which happens to be an AMAZING restaurant, I think one of the better ones in the city. Fortunately, it has a counter, so we were able to sneak in for dinner. The food was awesome, but the conversation was even better. I know this because about a third of the way through our dinner, a lone gentleman, a sort of Wallace Shawn-looking dapper dude, sat down next to me and G. I took note of his presence and then we resumed our conversational path, which wound its way from:

--The world's most expensive toilet and why one would really NEED a 24K gold commode in the first place, to:

--What would happen to someone in the U.S. who was in possession of Illegal Cheese, to:

--Whether or not Ernest Hemingway's six-toed cats would be any better at getting open a slice of Kraft Singles than your average cat:

--And so on.

At this point I happened to look up at our neighbor, and he was: LAUGHING. HIS. ASS. OFF. at us. And I was overjoyed that someone else was as entertained by our conversation as I was. We love to provide amusement to the solo diners of the world with our extreme inanity. But more so, I feel so privileged that I get to have these kinds of stupid conversations EVERY DAY. And I wouldn't have it any other way. And I will miss them when my kid is too cool to hang out with me in a decent restaurant, and would rather hang out with the dudes we've seen skating and smoking in Pioneer Square than with me.

These are the things I treasure most about not working. They are priceless. And I will miss them when (if) I am gainfully employed again. Which I both hope and don't hope happens soon.

A Few Comments About Spam

2010-05-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

Imagine you're me. No, really, it's going to be okay. Imagine you're me, and you check your email and see that someone has commented on your blog. Hooray! Someone actually reads this! Someone reads it for more than .5 seconds! What could they possibly have to say?

And then you click on the comment e-mail and see that Mr. or Ms. Anonymous has left a little gem on your blog about their new product, or internet service, or some brand new super awesome porn that you have just GOT to see. In other words, the spammers are taking over blog comments. Either that, or my ramblings are very, very popular with porn peddlers who just like to stop by and say "Hi!"

Hey! Assholes! I hate spam--in e-mail, on the phone, in real life, and ESPECIALLY in blog comments. Do I head over to your blog or site where you're trying to sell nekkid boobie pictures or increase someone's dick size and leave comments about my kids or my dead dog or my business trips? NO I DO NOT. SO CUT. IT. OUT. (Yes, I realize I am yelling at bots. But the kids are at school and you have to yell at something.)

Admittedly, even *I* don't show up on my blog all that much. So imagine my joy today when I saw a little tab called "Comment Moderation" on Blogger. Goodbye, anonymous posters! Hello,
word verification! Suck it, spammers! May this blog soon get back to normal, where real, flesh-and-blood people are busy ignoring it. I can't wait.

Keep America Safe

2010-05-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

I was in New York last week. While I was there, I witnessed something frightening. Something unsafe. Something that threatens the American way of life. I'm not talking about this:

Which also did happen while I was there

I'm talking about this:

The three most dangerous words in the English language: ACID WASH JEGGINGS

They're jeggings. They're at Bloomingdales. And they're terrifying.

Jeggings, for the uninitiated or those in denial, are leggings--printed up to look like jeans. That's right. Leggings that look like jeans. HOW LAME IS THAT? You can't just wear skinny jeans that are really stretchy? You have to wear these? What do you pair them with? One of those shirts that's printed with a tuxedo? I mean seriously. Who wears this stuff?

I think the designers intended for people like this to wear them:

Based on my informal research, the real buyers look more like this:

But the real bottom line is that NOBODY should be wearing jeggings. They are a danger to society. If you care about America, hell, if you care about the whole world, please don't buy these. Buy a pair of supertight jeans that you need pliers to zip up, and suffer for fashion. Better you than the rest of us.

My day

2010-04-19T19:53:00.000-07:00

Today I:

Went for a hike.

Cleaned the house.

Fixed my bike.

Rode my bike.

Stretched.

Ate three balanced meals.

Grilled.

Sat down to dinner with my kids.

Watched half of a movie.

Got my daughter to bed.

Actually learned about what my son is doing in school.

Watched my daughter rehearse for a ballet recital.

Found out there was a ballet recital.

Brought cupcakes to class.

Ate on the patio.

Today I did NOT:

Work.

Thanks for Noticing. FINALLY.

2010-04-03T16:13:00.000-07:00

The most e-mailed story on the Times Web site today is about the possible illegality of unpaid "internships." The story posits that more and more companies are using unpaid internships to squeeze free labor out of college students and recent college grads.

To which I have two things to say. First: Doyyyyyyyyyy. And second: What the hell has taken people so long to voice the opinion that this practice is fucked up? I have been saying it for years, 20 in fact, since I graduated from school well prepared for an entry-level job in journalism and had to spend years working for free to prove that I was work risking a $18,000 per year salary on.

People are outraged. There's the whole idea that it's a classist and racist system where the poor and underprivileged don't have the means or the time to fritter away working for free to gain "exposure" at these gigs. (To quote a friend of a friend when he was told such work is good exposure: "You can die from exposure, you know.") Well you know what? That ain't a new development and it has nothing to do with working for free. You think all those publishing houses and magazines that have long paid $14K a year for an edit assistant job are hiring Horatio Alger to work for them? They are self-selecting. Same old same old.

And the more outrageous outrage is this. The article itself goes on to say that well, the journalism field and film have always been known for this kind of exploitation, and it's expected. But now--gasp--REAL industries are doing it, and it's JUST WRONG. Trudy Steinfeld, director of N.Y.U.'s office of career services, says, “A few famous banks have called and said, ‘We’d like to do this.’ ”

“I said, ‘No way. You will not list on this campus.’ ”

Hey Trudy! So it's okay for people to bust their asses preparing themselves for writing or film careers and work for free, but for aspiring BANKERS, that's just wrong? Sorry, but fuck that. Work is work. Whether it's crunching numbers in a quant job or writing captions or sharpening pencils. And if work is being done, fork it over. And college counselors and placement officers, if you're going to protect one group, protect them all. Remember when you worked for free? Oh, that's right, you probably DIDN'T.

I did. This whole story takes me back to the good old days right after college, when I myself had the pleasure of feeling fucked-over and exploited by not one, but TWO different magazines. I'll say this--no, it's not okay to hire someone for an internship and make them clean the bathroom. But it's equally not cool to hire someone for an "internship" when they're actually doing the work equivalent to that of a full-time staffed fact-checker, or a salaried assistant editor. And that's what I did.

At my first "job" out of college, for a small, independent city magazine, I wrote stories, copy-edited pieces, did research for the on-staff editors, delivered magazines, and put up with mistreatment from a bat-shit crazy publisher and a narcissistic senior editor who mistakenly thought she had more talent than anyone else who worked there. I delivered an ultimatum that I wanted to get paid, and when that didn't pan out, I went to my second job, at a national magazine owned by a huge, huge media conglomerate (whose name rhymes with "rhyme") who gave me a fact-checking job and a raise to a whopping $25 a week. That was an interesting job, but I was not learning, I was "doing"--the same thing as the two staff fact-checkers.

I did my job so well that I was fact-checking complicated political stories and stories on the L.A. riots, and I actually caught a plagiarist among the writers (for those keeping score, Plagiarist: $1 a word, several hundred words a month. Me: $25 a week.) For my hard work, I was given a second three-month tour of duty and a raise to $75 a week--and an opportunity to apply for a staff position when one came open. Did I get it? No. It went to another deserving candidate who had been working as an intern for a paltry sum...for at least nine months. What I did get was a thank you and an invitation to keep working for another couple of cycles until another staff job came up. What I gave was a hearty "Up Yours" as I made other--paying--arrangements, aka working at the mall. Go, me.

You might say, well, I had free will. Why did I take these jobs? Eleven percent unemployment, that's why. And a desire to work in publishing. I did get a paying editorial job, by the way--after I took a few years off to walk the earth and waited for the economy to improve. (Another option not really available to the truly poor and struggling of the world).

I'll leave you with one more sad cautionary tale, one brought about by my own desire to stop getting butt-fucked by the magazine industry. As I was leaving the second magazine, one of the senior editors took pity on me and said he knew of another magazine starting up in the city--one run by smart people, that sounded really interesting, and they were looking for people. He gave me the name of the magazine and the phone number of his friend, who I called the next day. He called me back and we chatted about the job--an internship that would possibly turn into a full-time position as the magazine grew. The work was exciting, great exposure and they could afford to pay $100 a month. I had heard that song before, I was tired of it, so I said no.

The magazine? Wired. The journalism equivalent of saying, "Hey Larry and Sergey, this Google idea sounds great, but don't we already have ENOUGH search engines out there?"

Would I have become employee number [single digit] at one of the most influential magazines of the past 30 years? Or would I have cycled through and OD'ed on top ramen and gotten a job at the mall anyway? I dunno. But it sure would be nice, now that the Times has NOTICED and all, if companies would put an end to short-changing young aspiring whatevers--and keep them from short-changing themselves by thinking that that next Wired job or Google job is not just yet another opportunity for someone with more power than them to get something for nothing.

Not-so-good Friday

2010-04-02T22:14:00.000-07:00

The best of all possible dogs. 1998-2010.

I hope your Friday was good. Because mine sucked. I lost my best friend. And I mean that seriously, not in the Precious Moments bullshit sense of the word. I had to make the call to end the life of my beloved dog. But it was the right thing to do. It was time.

I meant to update here this past week, but things happened faster than my fingers could type. First the hospitalization. Then the surgery. Then the survival. Then the complications. Then more survival. Then the downslide. Then the decision. It happened during a week. But it was a helluva week. And it was just me and him.

Bottom line? Pancreatitis. It's a horrible, horrible disease. Don't ever get it. Don't let your pets get it, if you can help it. Vito fought and fought to get past the pancreatic inflammation, the shutdown of the intestines, the bacteria that wanted to creep into his liver. And for a while it looked like he was winning. But it was too much. He held on for Rick and the kids to get back into town, so they could have a few great, love-filled visits. And that was all he had.

Today, the doctor called me with news that his body was fighting new infection. And that his pancreas was rearing its nasty self again. And that his gallbladder was not picking up the slack from the biliary drainage tube they pulled. We could have done surgery to put in a feeding tube that bypassed the pancreas. We could have seen how that would have done. We could have kept him alive. But I have been with him every day for the past two weeks. I have seen him suffer, and I have made decisions that I thought were positive and that would prolong his life. This was not one of those decisions. So we decided to let him go. It was time. He was ready.

So we went up today and said our goodbyes. I told him what a special dog he was and what a privilege it was to know him. And how I wanted only what was best for him and that I thought it was time he was at peace. Everything in his body language and his eyes agreed with me.

I could not be with him for the final moments. I could not watch him die. He died in Rick's arms, outside, under a nice big tree. He felt no pain. He had no agitated moments. He just went. I had one more moment with him after he was gone, to say goodbye. To say, I love you little one. You were my firstborn. Go in peace. I closed his eyes. And it was over.

Vito was a superlative dog. He has received love, and is receiving it now, from around the world, from the hospital, from Boulder, from his family in San Francisco, from everyone who ever touched him. And that is what life is about. The people you touch and the joy that you spread. And Vito gets an A plus for that.

Godspeed, little puppyhead. I love you. Forever.

In dog we trust

2010-03-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'm hanging here on the couch tonight. I've got my computer, my blanket, my glass of wine, and I'm watching the snow dump from the sky. It's comfortable, I won't lie. But I'm missing the special little something that keeps my feet warm. Vito isn't here.

Those of you who know our dog, Vito Polito, know that he is the best fucking dog who ever lived. And that is an unbiased statement. He really is that good. Vito is up in Fort Collins tonight at the CSU veterinary hospital, resting comfortably. In the past week, he has been not so fresh. He hasn't been eating. He doesn't feel like walking, even in 60-degree weather with squirrels running amok in our 'hood. He doesn't even lift his head for human food. In other words, he has been: not himself. The vet isolated his issues to his liver and gall bladder, so we've sent him up to Fort Collins for further observation and possible gall bladder surgery tomorrow.

I've watched Vito this week and I've seen the looks on the doctors' faces. This is not "sometimes dogs just puke." It's not "oops, Vito didn't chew that burrito enough before stuffing the whole thing down his piehole." This is pretty serious. As in, elevated liver functions. As in, surgery with risk. As in, he's 12 years old. As in, please peruse this "do not resuscitate" document before we proceed.

Does that mean this is the end? No--he may be fine, hopefully he will be fine. But this is the first time I've actually seen the end for Vito come out of the distance, and that. is. scary.

There are dogs in this world who live a life of great privilege--sleeping in beds that are replicas of their owner's beds, dressing better than I do, eating lovingly prepared organic meals every night. Vito is not one of those dogs. He is not a child substitute. I have two children who make perfectly good child substitutes. He is my dog. But he is an amazing dog. And he is the first living being other than myself that I ever vowed to take care of through good times and bad, for a lifetime.

So I'll be driving back up to Fort Collins tomorrow in the snow to be in the waiting room when he wakes up. I'll be shaking the cash loose from my savings to do whatever it takes to keep him around. As a dog, as a companion, as a foot warmer, he is so worth it. I want there to be another day when I take for granted his little body burrowed under the covers. Another morning at 6 a.m. when I get to think, "oh for god's sake SHUT THE FUCK UP and let me sleep."

As I hear news, I will post updates. But for now, he is resting comfortably and there is nothing new. And my feet are cold.

On the Bright Side...

2010-01-03T17:16:00.000-08:00

I could get used to this

There are so few real advantages to recuperating from knee surgery, but there are some silver linings. The drugs, for one thing. It's also a free pass to sit on the couch and watch movies all day. And you can also burst into tears and have a good cry and people will blame it on the fatigue or the stress and not the fact that you're, y'know, a FROOTBAT. But the best perk of all is the one that's small and red and hangs from my rearview mirror. Yes, I'm talking about the joy of the Temporary Handicap Placard.

Of course, to get a Temporary Handicap Placard, one does have to be Temporarily Handicapped. And that's kind of a bummer. But I have to admit there is kind of a thrill going to the museum on a Saturday or to a jam-packed mall and being like, " 'scuse ME, bitches," as I pull into the front row. It's been nice. And the Pepsi Center? CANNOT WAIT. Only Melo has a better spot.

My husband is disgusted with me. He thinks that anything less than paraplegia means you should suck it up and hoof it. To that I say, hey, Joan of Arc, when someone cuts open YOUR knee and pulls out half of YOUR hamstring to tie it all together, you can hobble to and from the back lot at Costco all you want. But while I try to balance parenthood and recuperation, while I have to settle for a 1-degree improvement in my range of motion and the reappearance of my shinbone in my leg as major causes for celebration, I'm going to enjoy my status as a member of the handicap row. You gotta take what you can get.

Resolved

2009-12-31T14:49:00.000-08:00

Ten years ago today, I rang in the new millenium on the roof of my friend Suzanne's amazing penthouse loft, watching fireworks explode over the city of San Francisco. We stayed out all night--we had no kids to come home to. I was milking the dot-com explosion for all it was worth and socking away half of every paycheck. Given the events of the next year, that turned out to be an incredibly smart move--savings really come in handy when one has a new baby and no work.

But at the start of 2000, we had no idea what was coming. And it's easy to say now, in hindsight, after eight years of presidential ineptitude, two downed buildings, a bust, another boom, another bust, and countless personal challenges later, that this decade kind of blew. But it didn't suck entirely. At the other end of the aughts, I have scars, but I also have two beautiful, amazing children; the fruits of a wise investment; a decent career; some mad skillz; a mountain view; my health; and the wisdom of a survivor.

I have no idea what to expect from the teens. I'm taking it one year at a time. As I am fond of saying, 2009 was a year to get through. No stopping. It was a year to hang on by your fingernails until there was solid ground to stand on. Or even shaky ground, as long as it wasn't about to cave. And we all did it. I don't think it's too much to ask that 2010 be the payoff for the struggles of the year before, bringing prosperity, love, joy, opportunity, and all those other good things we're all so desperate to savor. As for me, I'm not asking for too much. Above all, continued health and progress for my family. But I do have a few resolutions. In 2010, I resolve to:

--Work as hard as I can to bring my knee back to 100 percent strength, so that the only evidence of this injury is that pesky little scar down the front of my leg.

--Find my balance. I seem to have lost it somewhere in the last 2.5 years.

--Write about stories and actual humans at least as much as I do about machines.

--Take time away from my job and give it back to my kids.

--Change what isn't working and strengthen what is.

--See the world, and as many friends as I can.

--Be well.

--Be good.

No promises, but I'll do my best. Happy New Year, and New Decade.

Touch typing is awesome (if you have $1200)

2009-12-28T14:45:00.000-08:00

It only took me 7 hours to type this post. But it was free.

When I was in high school, my parents didn't give a crap what classes I took--except for one. Physics? Feh. Calculus? Yeah whatever. But my dad insisted that I take at least a year of touch typing by the time I graduated. He and my mom both said that as long as I could type upwards of 70wpm, I could get a job doing....something. At least, something that didn't involve welding or operating a ferris wheel. Considering it was one of the few things they were totally sound on, and that my mom had started out in a typing pool and seemed to be doing pretty darned well for herself, I humored them. After a semester of typing, most of which I spent goofing off with my friend David, I actually did learn to type pretty quickly and talked my dad down to a semester of typing so I could have a period free during my senior year to fuck off even more.

In years to come, it turned out my parents were right. Typing served me very well. In journalism school, where everything was deadline-driven, I blew the hunt n peck kids away. I was able to get jobs doing data entry and other exciting James Bond-level jobs. And today, I can type up in the triple-digit wpm range. At least, I could until yesterday.

I still can--just not on this computer. Because this keyboard has had a keyboard lobotomy. A few days before xmas, I spilled some soup on the counter. My computer was also on the counter and had a little sip, which shorted out part of my keyboard. Not the WHOLE keyboard, just the parts I actually use. I no longer have a functional Return key. Or a Shift key on the right. Or a Delete key. All I need is for the F, U, C and K keys to crap out and I'll be completely paralyzed.

Of course, everything has a fix. We took the computer to the Genius Bar and they said they could fix the broken keys....FOR TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS. If they regularly get people forking over 12 large to fix three keys on a keyboard, they really are geniuses.

The poor man's fix is way cheaper but far, far more annoying. I can still have a Return key if I just use the Enter key instead. That's simple enough. (Why does my computer have both a Return key and an Enter key? I DON'T KNOW.) For the Shift key, I can use the caps lock key to cap all of the letters on the left side of the keyboard (RIGHT??). And for Delete? I bring up the Keyboard Viewer on my Mac, which activates a teeny tiny version of my keyboard that enables me to not only see what I'm typing, but enables me to mouse-click the teeny tiny Delete key whenever I want to backspace.

If you think this is the most RETARDED thing you've ever heard, I'm right there with you. But it's also $1200 cheaper than the next alternative. Anyway, the net result of these stupid, stupid fixes is that touch typing? Mostly out the window. I'm forced to have to think about every other word that I type and make random complicated moves to compensate for the dead keys, thus slowing my typing at least in half. That I am even typing this now is a testament to how much I love you all. Or how narcissistic I am. Or something.

The thing is, this computer is only three years old. And because it's a Mac, it's still going strong. So I'm stuck with this ridiculous situation for quite a while. This is the computer equivalent of someone T-boning your 2002 Nissan Sentra at a light so that it's seriously fucked up, but not totalled. So your insurance makes you fix it but it's never, ever the same. And it's still a 2002 Nissan Sentra. I cannot in good conscience spend $1700 on a new laptop, or $1200 for a fully functioning keyboard. But here I am.

So if you need me to type anything for you, be patient. And let this be a lesson to you--if you're going to spill soup near your computer, go big or go home.

What would Santa do?

2009-12-24T12:19:00.000-08:00

Gianni has unwittingly forced a moral dilemma in our house. A few days ago, while I still had two functioning knees, I went out to Pearl Street Mall to stock up on stocking stuffers for the kids. I went to their two favorite stores, Into the Wind (cool tchotchkes) and Powell's Candy (uh-huh), and picked out some choice trinkets and treats.

I try to be reasonably mellow about the holidays but I am pretty psycho about the stockings. It all goes back to the year when my dad forgot to pick up stocking stuffers for us and had to make do with whatever was available at the nearest gas station convenience store. We woke up the next morning and discovered that Santa had deemed us worthy to recieve a pecan divinity log, some circus peanuts, a pine tree air freshener and a can of Turtle Wax. It was almost as traumatizing as Christmas at Denny's, which I still can't bring myself to talk about here.

Anyway, no matter what, I try to make an effort to show that Santa Cares with some good candy and decent toys, quality rather than quantity (pine air fresheners are a dime a dozen--no, REALLY.) So again this year, I chose with care and stashed the stocking stuffers in the garage, out of sight. OR SO I THOUGHT.

I discovered yesterday, thanks to my friend/spy GerRee, that Gianni 'fessed up to her that he went a-snooping in the garage and found the stocking stuffers. But he doesn't KNOW that they're for the stockings, he just assumes they're cool loot. And therein lies the dilemma. Gianni is nine--I suspect he knows there's no Santa, but we're in that awkward period where either the secret is somehow out, or they still believe, or more likely everyone is playing in an elaborate charade to keep the Santa thing going and extend childhood just a little longer.

So in terms of stocking stuffers, what do I do? I have neither the time nor the mobility to go out and pick up different stocking stuffers. Nor do I want to--I'm not buying more stocking stuffers just because that little fucker can't stay out of the hidey hole in the garage. Do I just give him the original stuff and we all acknowledge that Santa time is over for G? Do I withhold the stocking because he was such a stinker? (NONONO I cannot do this. A pine air freshener pales in comparison to not getting ANY stocking at all.) Or do I try to cobble something else together? The Conoco station is just down the street.....

I'm leaning toward the first option. Gianni is a smart kid. I have a hunch he figured out this whole Santa thing long ago. It just makes me feel a twinge that we are at the point where Santa becomes an acknowledged myth and not the magic that the little kids experience. It's just another sign that my little boy is not so little anymore. But I also feel that it's time to acknowledge that and give him a role in the next phase of Christmas--giving and planning and keeping Santa cool for Tea for at least a few more years. After all, she just lost her first tooth--her own transformation from little girl into big one is not far behind.

I think it's just harder this year because I'm sitting here with my knee propped up and wrapped in ice and I feel like I'm just barely holding this Christmas together anyway. But in the end, it's all about the fundamentals--getting to spend time together after months of crazy work hours. Laughing about traditional Christmas craziness. Eating tamales. Seeing friends. That stuff is still here, and will be long after Santa is just some dude at the mall. And if I can hang on to that this crazy year, of all years, it will all be okay.

How to Ponder, Parts I and II

2009-12-22T18:37:00.000-08:00

Thinking rock, Table Mountain, Cape Town

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Shut up. I didn't sprain my brain. For the past six months, I've been going, going, going without much thought to anything. Go here. Work on that. Help this kid. Now help the other one. Run. Eat. Sleep. Get up and do it all over again. It has been, to put it mildly, unsatisfying. Aside from the obvious reasons for being excited about South Africa--a chance to work on a standout project at work, and to see some bona fide awesome stuff--the trip was a chance for me to be alone. To stop. To think. About stuff.

Once I finished up in Jo'burg, I wanted to take a few days to not travel (four days of flying plus only four days on the ground in SA = tired, old me.) So I booked a cheap flight and a cheap, cute hotel in Cape Town to just get away. From everything. Cape Town is gorgeous--like suck-in-your-breath, ohmigod, GORGEOUS gorgeous. And I say that after living in nothing BUT gorgeous places for the last 19 years. The waterfront reminds me of Santa Monica, with a nice big promenade, a worn-out little area for train rides and Putt Putt and other activities, an eclectic mix of folks, and an inordinate number of people sleeping under trees. After Jo'burg, where the main afternoon activity seemed to be stressing out about whether you were going to be mugged, it was nice to be in a city where, at least during daylight hours, the main goal seemed to be bagging a few z's in the sunshine.

Yet another perfect day for a stroll.

I spent the first few days just walking. Exploring the shops, watching the people, talking to laid-back locals about their favorite topics--namely, wine and how much Jo'burg sucks. The last day I took a tram to the top of Table Mountain--the big flat mountaintop that casts a protective shadow over Cape Town. After days of driving and working and a series of seriously crappy phone calls, I knew what I wanted to do--WALK. So I walked and walked and walked through the low-lying fog and dry mountainscape, on trails that wound their way through an explosion of wildflowers. When my feet were covered with blisters and I could walk no more, I sat on a rock that overlooked the Cape of Good Hope and the blue, blue water and attempted to process the enormous amount of information that has been swirling in my head for a year. Life. Work. Knees. I had no answers, but at least I got to finally ask the questions.

Amazing, yes?

I prefer to think while I'm moving, or at least outside. But now I am neither. This morning I went into a nice hospital-like place where they knocked me out and repaired this nasty little ligament in my knee that has been cramping my style for several months now. The surgery went very well--according to my doctor, I have the hamstrings of a 200-pound-man (my first thoughts: 1. But then how does he walk? [Really, I crack myself up.] and 2. I certainly hope we're talking about strength and quality and not girth. I rarely hear men talking about women and their hot big hamstrings.)

But now, I am here on my couch with my leg nicely propped and icing, in a pleasant Vicodin haze. And with nothing to do but think. It is the anti-me. But it is a golden opportunity for me to: JUST. STOP. Stop moving or feeling responsible for the world. Stop worrying about work sucking or whether or not my knee is going to blow out on me--because god knows that train has left the station. I get to rest and be taken care of. And hopefully I get to blog often, and on Vicodin, which could be quite amusing for you all. But I've really never done this before. I'm not very good at it. I'd like to see improvement. So we shall see.

When Animals (and Clients) Attack

2009-12-15T19:37:00.000-08:00

Take a picture of this, asshole

When we go on location for video shoots for my job, we often use local crews rather than truck a bunch of crap halfway around the world. Ty did bring his own NTSC camera from the States so we wouldn't have to convert video (Quoth the customs agent in NY, when clearing the camera to go to Jo'burg: "You are going to be killed.") But our crew booking agency also found us a nice, experienced South African crew to do the sound and camera work, as well as make the local production arrangements at the stage.

There doesn't seem to be much of a booming commercial and television industry in South Africa, and compared with the U.S. or Europe, not much of a business market. So I wondered--what does a local crew do down here for work? What do they shoot?

Fuckin' leopards, that's what.

Not leopards as in Leopard, my company. REAL . GODDAMN. LEOPARDS. Preferably ones who are trying to rip your arm off.

"We do a lot of work for the Discovery Channel," Alan, the head of the production company, told me. "We specialize in animal attacks. Crocodile attacks, monkey attacks, leopard attacks. We just did a shark attack a few months ago."

In case you were wondering who the HELL films this shit? Alan's your man. I immediately texted my husband, who has "monkey attack" at the top of his Google news alerts, to tell him that I just spoke to his hero and the source of 90 percent of his Internet entertainment.

Alan told me about the time that his crew went with a safari group to look for leopards. "The guide knew there were leopards there," he said. "She brought everyone up close anyway. And suddenly this leopard jumps out and GRABS HER BY THE SCALP. It was awful." So awful, so what do you do? FILM IT, OF COURSE. Aieeee.

Then Alan shows us his incredibly scarred up arm, apparently caused by an extremely pissed off leopard. Unclear whether it was the same scalp-lovin' leopard. I kind of forgot to ask.

Ah, well. In Omaha, you film Warren Buffett. In Orlando, you film oversized Disney characters. In Africa, you get mangled by leopards. All in a day's work.

Sawubona, Soweto

2009-12-08T05:06:00.000-08:00

After, oh, about 12 hours of being in our fancy-schmancy W-style hotel in the middle of our fancy schmancy shopping complex, Ty and I decided--fuck this place. Like I've said, it's not that it wasn't lovely. But if I wanted to sip cocktails in a hip bar surrounded by white people, it's a lot cheaper to go to Cherry Creek. As long as we were in Africa, we wanted to see real Africa stuff. So we went to Soweto.

What most people, including me, know about Soweto, we learned from the news. Or heartfelt books. Or crusading fundraising rock stars. And what we heard about is the uprising, struggle, the symbolism, the hope. But there's a lot I didn't know about Soweto. For instance, this collection of townships forms a city of between 3 and 5 million people. It's HUGE. They don't know exactly how many because much of the population is undocumented. And Soweto is not all tin shacks and dirt roads. It's as varied as any city, with dirt poor slums sitting beside brand new housing developments, across from neat 4-room houses, down the street from bona fide mansions with BMWs in the driveway. It's home to many people from the native South African ethnic groups, like the Zulu--also to a huge immigrant population from other countries in Africa. I didn't know any of that stuff. But four hours on a bike will teach you a lot.

There are lots of tours of Soweto, but we didn't want to see the area from an air-conditioned bus. I'm also wary of tours in general, especially tours whose main theme seems to be, "Let's point and take pictures of poor people!" So I did some looking (thank you, Lonely Planet!) and found a good alternative--a bike tour of Soweto. Over the course of four hours, a guide will pedal with you around the neighborhoods of Soweto, where you'll see everything, smell everything and talk to everyone. The tour also included all of the major Soweto sights like the Hector Petersen Memorial, Nelson Mandela's house and all the stuff that you really shouldn't miss if you're going to go all that way. So we booked spots for the next day.

At 9am, a van picked us up from our hotel for the 20Km or so trip to Soweto. The van trip itself was a fascinating journey. First it took us through the posh northern suburbs of Johannesburg and wound down the main drag (a Sunset Boulevard of sorts) past the leafy green--but empty--parks closer to downtown. We passed the zoo. Apparently Jo'burg has a lovely zoo, but seriously--a ZOO? In AFRICA? I just can't get down with that. Then we got on the freeway that closely bypasses downtown. I wouldn't call Jo'burg a beautiful city--it's more concrete jungle than architectural treasure--but it's intriguing, with its towers and a deserted amusement park called Gold Rush City in the shadow of the skyscrapers. The mean streets we heard so much about were down there, looking burnt out and ghetto-ish. It reminded me of the scariest parts of West Oakland or Chicago's South Side, with trash-strewn vacant lots, sad looking corner stores and people hanging out on those corners without much to do. But we saw signs of the impending World Cup--sparkling new plazas and loft-like apartments standing out amidst the blight.

The new Soccer City is just past downtown on the way to Soweto. The main stadium for the World Cup is designed--no joke--to look like a traditional clay pot of African beer, down to the canvas roof with its many peaks looking like the foam at the top. There is so, so much right with a football stadium designed to look like a giant beer. Well done, South Africa.

mmm....beer

The first thing you see when you get to Soweto is a rolling sea of red--the red tile roofs of the classic 4-room houses. Most of the homes have tin shacks in the back yard, additions to hold extra family members or to rent out to the many recent immigrants from other parts of Africa. There are thousands of these houses with their shack appendages, stretching out far along the horizon. Look back the other way and you see the towers of Jo'burg in the distance, and thestripped out yellow mounds left over from gold mining.

Soweto, far as the eye can see

The hostel that runs the bike tour is across the street from a neat little park and playground full of local children. The hostel is like a little oasis on a quiet street, with neat rooms and a plant-lined patio with a hammock, a mini-cantina and a foosball table.

Chillin' in da backyard

It looks like a terrific place to spend the night, and many backpackers do. There were about 15 people on our tour, and they soon issued us bikes and helmets. My bike was no-frills, to say the least. About 1.5 of the gears worked and about halfway through the ride my quick-release seatpost stripped out. I could either pedal out of the saddle or in low position with my knees akimbo, like I was riding Tea's bike. But it got me from place to place, and I'm all about the flow.

For the next four hours, we pedaled in and out of different worlds--the first one full of modest 4-room houses and paved roads. It was simple, but there were signs of at least the second world, if not necessarily the first.

We turned a corner and we were somewhere else. Tin shacks outnumbered brick houses. Trash littered some areas and piled in others. An open sewer ditch ran along the road. We stopped in front of a tumbledown main "street," in front of a tiny tin shack. This was a "shebeen," a small illegal tavern. I've seen storage sheds larger, but the shebeen was packed to the gills. About a dozen older African men sat on benches that ran along all four walls, all smoking and trading jokes. We joined them and soon there were a couple dozen of us squeezed into the tiny space. In summer. In Africa. The term "sweat lodge" comes to mind. It was smoky. And sweaty. And dark. And fascinating. I lost my sunglasses through a crack in the floor. I didn't go after them because I truly wasn't sure what was living down there. I looked at the older guy next to me and we both smiled and shrugged.

"Shebeen," African for "dive bar"

Our guide brought us two white buckets. One contained a non-alcoholic beverage (bootleg African root beer, if you will.) The other contained fermented hooch. The contents of the first bucket smelled like bubble gum and tasted vaguely like a day-old papaya smoothie. The stuff in the second bucket tasted like finely aged vintage ASS. Really gross. I took a polite sip and passed it along to my quiet, smoking hosts. Cheers, fellas.

For the next hour or so we wandered through this neighborhood, and it. was. AMAZING. This is how the rest of the world lives. The poverty was jarring at times. There's nothing happy about children playing directly next to a spot where six dead rats are rotting. But the thing is--the children are playing. Just like children do everywhere. They were thrilled to see us. They smiled, hugged and gave us hearty welcomes. They tried on our helmets and sat on our laps and looked at our photos. Africans have the most genuine beautiful smiles. All of the people we met in Soweto greeted us with smiles and handshakes, and I'd like to think it's not just because we had tourist dollars to spend. Even in the poorest, hardest corners of Soweto I felt more welcome than I have in some U.S. cities, and definitely safer than I did in Jo'burg

our hosts

We continued to ride and walk through the lower-rent district of Soweto, down back alleys and past hanging laundry and throngs of children giving us high-fives as we walked by, until we got to a small food stand with piles of fruit and veggies and some cooked meat on a plate. They invited us to dig in. My basic philosophy on food is: is it a mushroom? No? Then eat. I will try anything once. So with out looking too closely or asking too many questions, I grabbed a piece of the meat, rolled it in salt and ground red pepper, and popped it into my mouth. First impression? Hot as FUCK. Holy holy. The meat wasn't bad at all. I steeled myself to hear that it was some kind of brain or intestine or foreskin, but it turned out to be the meat of the cow's head, around the skull. Wives tale has it that if you eat the meat of the head, it will make you wise. I think I ate at least 5 IQ points' worth, so you'll have to let me know if it worked. I'm skeptical.

Don't ask, just eat

After our, uh, tasty snack, we pedaled out of the slum and wound up at a modern town square for the historic portion of the tour. We were at the Hector Petersen Memorial, the site where, in 1976, Soweto schoolchildren were gunned down by police for protesting the mandatory teaching of Afrikaans in schools. Hector Petersen was the youngest boy killed, at age 12, and a museum and memorial fountain now stand a few hundred yards from the site of the shooting. It was incredibly emotional, I teared up looking at it, thinking of my own son who is not much younger than Hector was. We spent 15 to 20 minutes here, mostly in silence.

We went from there to a neighborhood that is clearly the Beverly Hills of Soweto--big gates, swimming pools, movie stars...or at least political and musical luminaries. We saw Desmond Tutu's sleek modern home and a couple of phat pads that were bigger than our home in Boulder.

We ended up at Nelson Mandela's home, which has been turned into a museum next to the Mandela Family Restaurant. It was lunchtime and nearly the end of our tour. We sat down and chatted with our tourmates, a really interesting bunch. They included a doctoral student from Luxembourg who was researching the effects of Chinese economic growth on the South African economy, and three young women--two English, one American--working at NGOs and on fellowships in Swaziland. They had driven over for the weekend to see The Killers in Jo'burg. We were all starving and watched excitedly as our neighbors were served heaping plates of very African-looking dishes of meats, curries and rice.

So imagine our shock when we each got one of these:

That's right, a big starchy bun stuffed with French fries, topped with a hot dog and a few Kraft singles, and then topped with more bread. It was like a processed food sundae. And it was perhaps the weirdest, most out-of-context lunch I've ever seen. It was like, hey, Whitey's coming, get out the hot dogs and American cheese! And African ketchup? Don't ask. It's the thought that counts but it actually made me nostalgic for the cow's head.

Right before we got back to the hostel, we pedaled up a hill and hiked up a small ridge to look down on the expanse of Soweto once more. Our guide pointed out a very large house on a well-appointed lot directly below us. It was Winnie Mandela's house. After two days in Jo'burg, we had seen big walls coiled with razor wire on every dwelling we passed. But at Winnie's house the walls were low and not festooned with spikes and barbs. We were perhaps 30 feet and a simple stucco wall away from the yard of the former first lady of South Africa. Can you even imagine standing less than 50 feet away from Hillary Clinton's back yard without at least a dozen people trying to fuck you up badly? But no one, not military, not law enforcement, not civilian, tried to so much as ask our intentions. It was just us and Winnie. It implied a trust that doesn't seem to exist in the rest of the country and I'm surprised it existed there of all places. Not because people are untrustworthy, but after so many years of shit, why should the people of Soweto trust anyone? But there we were, in the bars, on the roads, eating the food. And it was all good.

Yep, Still Here

2009-12-06T12:24:00.000-08:00

Downtown Jo'burg, in daytime: C.H.U.D.-free

Ms. Dorrie Fletcher of Newnan, Georgia, would have pooped her pants tonight. We ventured out of the mall to go to a real restaurant in what we heard was a real neighborhood, according to a doctoral student from Luxembourg that we met yesterday on the bus to Soweto. Melville is the one neighborhood in Jo'burg that is actually a neighborhood, in that Highlands, Cole Valley, Park Slope sense of a neighborhood. It has shops, bars and restaurants. On actual streets. With sidewalks. Where people actually walk. What a concept. Done and done. We made a reservation at a restaurant that Lonely Planet seemed to like a lot and considered it a plan.

Of course, to get to this walkable neighborhood, you have to drive there. So we got in our cute little African-issue VW, with Ty behind the wheel because I am a retard who can't drive stick, and headed out of the gate--literally. Melville is by all accounts in a relatively safe area, but it is very near downtown. The same downtown that everyone, from the guys out front to the guidebooks to the guy behind the rental car desk, tells you, FOR GOD'S SAKE NEVER GO THERE. AND NEVER EVER GO THERE AT NIGHT. Because, apparently the zombies and C.H.U.D.s and bad people come out at night and you will not come out alive, or at least not with your wallet.

So where were we at about 7:15 pm? In the dark, driving around, the only thing we're sure of is that we're headed downtown. Yeah, that downtown. How the fuck did this happen? Well, here's how. Johannesburg is missing a few key elements that enable people to get from Point A to Point B without stopping about 12 times. They are:

1. Proper directions. You can ask 17 different people in Jo'Burg how to get somewhere, and you'll get 17 different routes. And none of them will be exactly right, failing to take into account extra streets here and there, one-way roads, and entire buildings in the way. If you're going anywhere in Jo'Burg, plan on stopping at gas stations. A lot. Sometimes the same one twice. I think that people don't actually know how to get anywhere in Jo'Burg because they don't actually go anywhere. How can you get lost OR know the city when you're behind walls and in malls? We actually had one gas station attendant give us directions to the next gas station so we could get directions to where we were going. Which, in the end, turned out to be about 1/4 mile away from where we were speaking to him. Oh, well. it's a journey.

2. Street signs. When giving directions, people in Jo'burg tend to forget that there are NO STREET SIGNS on streets. We get a lot of, "turn right, then go past one robot, two robots, three robots...and then turn on Main Road." But not all robots are created equal. Do the ones that aren't lighted count? And when you pass three or four robots and you still haven't seen a street sign, then what? Downtown Johannesburg, that's what. Eep. Anyway, a little pre-World Cup advise, J'Burg--for the love of god, street signs!

3. Things that would have been nice to know before we started out: that our restaurant changed names entirely. No one ever told us. D'oh! That the onramp sign for the freeway going north is not at all where you would think it should be, and is covered by shrubbery. That the main street you're supposed to turn on actually has an entirely different name. I swear, I didn't know the meaning of the word lost until I got to this town! And it's not a meaning I particularly want to discover in a place where there's not much margin for error.

All I can say is, thank God for Ty's wrong-sided stick shift driving, lighted 24-hour mini-marts and U-Turns. We managed to stay safe and to spend the evening in a terrific little neighborhood, eating great food. It was great to be in a spot where people actually are out and about, with funky little bars and skater shops and a little character. I petted an adorable puppy at dinner. I had a superb chenin blanc with my tasty fish, and a macaroon the size of my head for dessert. I shared half of that with a Zulu security guard who had never eaten a macaroon before and thought he'd died and gone to heaven. It took awhile to get there. But all in all, worth getting lost over. For sure.

Behind the Wall

2009-12-06T06:26:00.001-08:00

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

"A visit to Johannesburg? Are you out of your mind? It is possibly the most dangerous city in the world besides Baghdad. I just got back from Durban, and was told by residents of Johannesburg that when our plane stopped there en route, under no circumstances were we to venture beyond the airport...it is irresponsible to blithely suggest Johannesburg as a tourist destination."

--New York Times, letter to the editor, June 30, 2006

So, uh, hello from Johannesburg! You'll all be glad to know that, despite the dire warning of Ms. Dorrie Fletcher of Newnan, Georgia in 2006, I've been here three days and I'm not dead yet. I have crossed the street, I have driven from the airport to my hotel and around Jo'Burg, I have seen townships and stopped at traffic lights (amusingly called "robots," beep boop boop) and I'm still here. And I'm completely fascinated by this city, which is the mother of all case studies on race, class and urban sociology. I've never seen anything like it.

Let's start with the walls. Johannesburg is a city of walls. Walls around homes, around shopping centers, around other walls. I've seen more razor wire and security on this trip than I've seen around most minimum security prisons. Seriously, if I were in one of these houses and peeked over the wall, I'd expect to see no less than 50 zombies trying to get in, like something out of I Am Legend. But what's really outside the walls? Silence. Nothingness. Street after street of sidewalks with no one walking, except the occasional African domestic worker on the way to a job. These are neighborhoods without neighbors. It's creepy, a whole city silenced by fear.

But of course there are people in Johannesburg. You know where they all are? At the mall. The mall is the neighborhood in Jo'burg. People do all of their eating, drinking and socializing in contained, sterile enclaves protected by armed guards. I am staying in a lovely hotel. It is on a lovely brick courtyard with some lovely bars and restaurants across the way. It is quite idyllic. But it is also a big fakefest, like Main Street USA at Disneyland. It bears no small resemblance to...Broomfield. But imagine BroomVegas if the entire city of Denver hung out there and nowhere else. If it were the epicenter of social activity for every man, woman and child. Ready to kill yourself yet? That's what I thought.

As delightful as this mall is, it's still a mall. So I, along with my video producer, Ty, have been pushing the boundaries of the security booth each day, trying to get to the other side of the wall to see what the fuss is about. Yesterday, we headed down to Soweto (more on that later.) Today, we went to the city flea market, which is also in a mall but it's in the PARKING LOT of the mall so it's a little better. We both suspect that a lot of the fear and paranoia that prompts people to build these walls is caused by the walls themselves, and the REAL wall was constructed out of years of hostility and oppression and xenophobia. A hundred years of racism and mistrust takes a long time to dismantle.

But what is the truth? Is Johannesburg any more dangerous to the average person on the street (or behind the wall) than Detroit or West Oakland? While caution is certainly prudent, as it is in any large city, is the razor wire really necessary? On the one hand, based on the people I've met, I'm skeptical. On the other, as a person with a family waiting for me at home, I'm not sure I'm ready to completely test that theory. So I've been listening to the word on the ground, from bellmen and backpackers and other people who really have a sense, feeling out what's okay to explore and what truly falls under the category of Don't Go There.

What are we finding? A lot of kindhearted people with beautiful smiles. A lot of generous South Africans who invite us to call them and offer to show us the way around this vibrant country. A lot of kids who love to hug. Maybe the World Cup next year will be the catalyst that will get people out of the malls and onto the streets and talking to each other. I hope so. Because it's too quiet here.

Don't dress as a Buzzkill for Halloween

2009-10-30T11:41:00.001-07:00

It's Halloween time again. Time to dress up, trick or treat, torch cars, get white Pan-cake makeup smeared all over you from drunkenly making out with someone dressed as Dead Michael Jackson, or whatever creams your Twinkie. (I DON'T JUDGE.)

For us parents, it means watching our kids go out into the snow (yes, SNOW) as, say, Captain Kirk and the cutest little ladybug princess EVAR and come home with a queen-sized pillow case full of sugary goodness. Before the night arrives, I would like to make a proclamation:

If you are a parent who lets your child have one piece of candy and then makes them throw the rest of it out/give it to the homeless/sell it to the dentist for a buck a pound/burn it in a Christian bonfire--

YOU ARE LAME.

(And don't try to deny it. I saw that dentist on Channel 2 this morning. She cleared like 500 pounds of candy from kids turning in hard-won goods last year. That's at least a couple hundred really bummed out little Spider Men, by my count.)

Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you have to be an asshole, too. Yes, the bag of candy weighs more than your children do. Yeah, it's more candy than they need to eat in a year by a factor of four. Yes, it'll rot out the inside of their head IF THEY EAT IT ALL. But they won't. Unless, of course, you tell them they can't have it. Then they'll eat it all and then snort all the granulated sugar in your house as a chaser. Have fun with that.

Here's how we rock Halloween, Polito-style. On Halloween night, I tell the kids: For this night only, it's a free-for-all. That's right, take that bag and stuff as much candy into your piehole as will possibly fit. And they try, oh yes they do. But you know what? They usually can't eat more than 10 "fun-size" pieces of candy anyway before they start to ache.

On November 1 and thereafter, they get one piece of candy a day. That lasts a week, maybe 10 days. And then you know what they do? They FORGET ABOUT IT. That's right. They get all caught up in time off for Thanksgiving and the tidal wave of booty they're going to get in December and they say, "Halloween candy, wha?" And then it's done. And you toss the candy. And they don't spend the rest of the year thinking about what a dick you were about the Halloween candy because you had to go all Alice Waters on their asses.

Try it. Trust me. And there are plenty of other opportunities in parenting to be the Buzzkill. Don't make it your permanent Halloween costume. Embrace the candy, and make it a fun-size evening for everyone. Thank you and good night.

Ahnold the Ahsshole

2009-10-28T19:37:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile, someone acts like an asshole. But they are so brilliant in their assholishness that you just have to genuflect in their direction and say, "You sir, are the king of all assholes. Let the wild rumpus begin."

Today, Arnold Schwarzenegger wears that crown. Soon after being told by Tom Ammiano at a Democratic fundraiser that he could, and I quote, "Kiss my gay ass," the Governator issued this very pointed veto of Ammiano-sponsored legislature that was clearly meant to be read vertically:

http://www.boingboing.com/

(Thankfully, it was a fairly low level bill--something about creating financing districts in SF. Bill 1176 did not advocate same-sex marriage or puppy rescue or organic food for poor babies or anything like that.)

On boingboing, they're arguing the likelihood of this being intentional, versus just a happy accident of nature. Oh come on. How much more intentional could this be? Someone clearly worked painstakingly to create this masterpiece. It's not THAT hard to carefully choose words to make things line up in just such a way. It's a skill most of us learn in junior high, right after we learn to spell BOOBLESS on the calculator.

Yes it's immature. And no, I really don't want to give props to some smartass little fucker in the governor's office who was probably laughing his ass off while writing this letter and is probably the toast of all his little entitled white boy buddies now. But admit it, it's kind of awesome. In fact, it's something I would probably do if I were bored and pissed off enough. I always assumed that's why I am not governor or some other fancy job, but obviously that's not a dealbreaker!

Tune in next week, when Governor Schwarzenegger puts a whoopie cushion on Mark Leno's seat in the state senate session.

Hooray for journalism.

2009-10-19T18:52:00.000-07:00

David Rohde's series in the Times about being held hostage in Afghanistan by the Taliban for seven months is truly outstanding. It gives me chills. I'm impressed with his ability to take his memories and the translations from his Afghani counterpart and synthesize them into such a riveting account of not only his experience, but the state of things over there as he observed it. Bravo.

Oh, and the Times is cutting 100 newsroom jobs.

What's wrong with this picture? And is there anything we can do to make it right?

Really people? Really?

2009-10-14T19:03:00.001-07:00

Thank you, Cindy, for keeping this blog alive.

I have been blogging for, oh, two years now. Oh wait, NEARLY FOUR? Holy crap. I don't check in as much as I used to, admittedly, to the disappointment of my VERY large fan club (hi mom). In that two (er, four) years, I've managed to write about a lot of stuff. I blog about my kids. About the weird shit I see from day to day. If you read this, you've been through my ups and downs, fights, life changes, kid trouble, knee trouble, and lots of talk about poop. I occasionally write about current events, most recently about our President. I have thoughts. Deep thoughts.

So when I check my analytics, what is the most common entry page for my blog? What are the keywords that bring people here every week?

Four words.

Cindy Crawford. Stretch marks.

Yes! It's true! Ages ago I wrote a blog post about my outrage at bitchy bitches snarking about Cindy Crawford's poor stretched out tummy, something that even we hottest babes have to deal with after popping out a few babes of our own. Little did I know that would be the post that brings 99 percent of the eyeballs that feast on this blog. It gets searched on EVERY. DAY. (in fact, I just went there myself! DAMMIT, tricked again.) Seriously. Of all the things I have poured out to you people, you just gotta have my opinion on supermodel stretch marks.

So tell me--I have to know. Why? Are you perverts? Stomach fetishists? Are you just dying to know who gets stretch marks? Are you Cindy Crawford? WHAT? I just don't get it.

Maybe someone can enlighten me. In the meantime, please realize this whole post is just an elaborate ploy to get my hit count up. Thank you for obliging. If there's anything else I can write about Cindy Crawford and her abdomen, just let me know.

The Difference Between Noble and Nobel

2009-10-09T18:36:00.001-07:00

There is no one on this planet who is a bigger fan of Barack Obama than I am. I love him soooooo much. Its kind of embarrassing, really. Every time I see him, or hear him or think about him, I feel all happy and hopeful inside. Not in a stalker-y way (back off, Secret Service.) He inspires me.

But I don't think that merits a Nobel Peace Prize. Apparently, the Nobel Prize Committee disagrees with me.

My first reaction when I heard the news this morning was, "Huuuuh?" My second reaction was, "Omigod, give it BACK." I hate that that reaction puts me in the company of teabaggers and Joe Wilson and other assorted troglodytes. But I have my reasons why I think that Obama, as much as I luuurv him, should respectfully decline this honor, at this time.

About a year ago, I wrote a post about a box of donuts and low standards.

In a nutshell, I talked about how sad it was that our standards were so low that people at my office treated a gift box of donuts like it was a million-dollar check. And how, similarly, we were so starved for truly exceptional leadership that Sarah Palin's not acting outright retarded in a debate counted as a stellar performance in the eyes of the media. Mud certainly fills a vacuum.

Well, Obama is a damn sight better than mediocre, but it's the same thing today. Our president isn't doing anything phenomenal for the peace process--he's doing his fucking JOB. Just because George Bush failed to do his for 8 years doesn't mean the next president gets a medal for being something more than a total shitweasel.

Again, that is not to detract AT ALL from Obama's overall awesomeness. But come on, when the wrong thing has been spelled out in capital letters in blinking neon and shouted from the rooftops for so long, it's pretty fucking easy to do the right thing. I don't think anyone deserves a prize for not being George Bush. If that's the case, we're all winners. Buy something purty with your .08 cents.

And really? There's not someone out there doing something truly exceptional to promote peace in 2009? There's not some relief agency head down in Sub-Saharan Africa keeping thousands of kids from being slaughtered? There's not someone on the ground in Afghanistan sticking it to the Taliban? There's not someone somewhere putting Glenn Beck through a four-mile spanking machine? SOMETHING? I think it would be quite noble for Obama to say, "C'mon, this is silly" and give the prize back, some worthy cause out there could surely use the dough.

But aside from that, this whole prize plays right into the other thing about the Obama juggernaut that scares the crap out of me. He is a superior human being. He is wonderful. He has potential for greatness. That's right, POTENTIAL. He is doing his job--let's let the man DO HIS JOB. We as a world have such an inclination to pile so many accolades on Obama, we put so much pressure on him he can't POSSIBLY succeed in the end. We are lifting him to such a lofty perch, and there's no oxygen up there. As with, yes, again, the donuts, we are so desperate for something, anything, that we are pouring all of our hopes into one man. And one man can't detangle this cluster. Hope is no substitute for hard, hard work, for action, for the time you need to allow to let things work.

I hope the Nobel Committee is right about Obama. I hope this award is prescient. But we are so not there yet. And I don't want to see the flip side of feverish adoration and high expectations--the irrational anger and the defeated man who's only human. Because Obama of all people doesn't deserve that. That's when nobody wins.

Q: Brilliant or Stupid? A: Microsoft

2009-09-23T20:47:00.000-07:00

I feel dirty.

I work at an agency. I should know better. You think by now I wouldn't be another sucker, falling prey to a viral campaign. But I was tricked again. D'oh. And worst of all? It was by Microsoft. Fuckers.

In anticipation of the launch of Windows 7, Microsoft posted a series of videos on YouTube about how to host your own Windows 7 launch party. I feel like I shouldn't even post them here, because I'd just be spreading the Microsoft viral marketing taint. Oh, what the hell, here's the brutally crappy one that I watched:

It's horrific. And embarrassing. And insults our intelligence. All things commonly associated with Microsoft. And I, like most people, spent the afternoon posting it to various social networking sites and going, "EW EW EW EW."

After the third or fourth response I got, and the third or fourth time I saw it picked up and posted by someone else, it dawned on me: SHIT. It's gone viral. Which is precisely the intention.

See, it doesn't matter that Microsoft looks fucking stupid and we all think they're jackasses. Because we already think that. They're not trying to influence public opinion. They're trying to get the word out that Windows 7 is coming and get us talking about them. And by leveraging our hatred, our love of irony, our cottage industry of mocking anything horrible and putrid, and by throwing a couple of really bad "device" double entendres in for good measure, they've got us hooked. Microsoft doesn't care about our number, but their agency sure has it.

Still, it's not positive press. Which begs the debate, is any viral good viral? Is it better to get people talking about your product and brand at any cost? And was that REALLY the intention here, or am I seeing brilliance where there is really just a bad campaign and a total lack of self-awareness? Is this Chauncey Gardner, or just a retarded guy that's good with plants? It's an interesting discussion. I'm sure we'll be talking about it at my Windows 7 launch party. When we're not playing with our devices.

Just Kill the Lobster and Shut Up

2009-09-19T05:55:00.000-07:00

Kill me. Please. I can't read another page.

I'm reading Julie and Julia right now. I needed something to read on my recent flight and at the airport bookstore had a choice between nine million Dean Koontz novels, ten million Nora Roberts novels, and Julie and Julia. I had heard it was vaguely good, wanted to read the book before I saw the movie, and was intrigued by the idea that someone would attempt to cook all of the recipes in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. God knows I couldn't do it. So it narrowly won out over Chicken Soup for Your Cat's Soul.

Halfway through the book, I'm now thinking I made the wrong choice. The precious cat stories might have made me puke, I might have at least had some admiration for the protagonists while I was heaving.

To me, reading Julie and Julia is the literary equivalent of watching a Jerry Lewis movie. For the first two minutes that you see Jerry Lewis on the screen being a bumbling retard, you think, heh-heh, kinda funny. After 20 minutes, you don't know who you want to shoot in the head first, him or yourself. It's the same with J and J. At first, you're like, woman like me, trying to boil a calf's foot, freaking out, ha ha ha. But a few chapters later, you're like, "Lady, it's just a goddamned lobster. Kill it and shut the fuck up."

Which pretty much sums up my hate for the book. I have to sit there for a chapter and listen to you whine about the horror of killing a live lobster. It's a LOBSTER. It doesn't care. (Hi PETA). Boil it and enjoy. Don't like being a secretary? Be something else. Love Austin and hate New York? MOVE. What would Julia do? She'd tell you to grow a pair.

Don't get me wrong, I'm intimately familiar with neurosis and whining and first-world problems. Oh yes. But I think this blog would be a little boring if all I did was wring my hands and say "Hey! Look at the stupid thing I did today! Ever notice how nice and round my navel is? The end!" (Look how I'm assuming that a. this blog isn't boring and b. I have readers. How CUTE!) I mean crap, if I knew there was such a market for books about white-lady passive aggressive dissatisfaction and ineptitude, I'd be on volume 12.

It's also a waste of talent. Jerry Lewis (stay with me here) didn't get where he is because he sucks. You watch his movies, and there IS genius hiding somewhere behind the idiocy. Every once in a while, it comes out. Same with this book. There are lines, paragraphs, passages, where good writing comes through, where you can really feel the angst or the awakening bubbling under the surface. But then it's gone, buried under tears about lobsters and tantrums about dinner guests. And I don't have the time or inclination to wade through the dreck to find the diamonds.

I'm not an across-the-board fan of Eat Pray Love, but I give props to Elizabeth Gilbert--she's a helluva writer and storyteller and she makes you love to read about her crazy. This book, not so much.

But it makes me look forward to the movie--I think this is one case where the movie will take the book one step further and round out the characters, give life to the Julie/Julia comparison, make me give a shit. Because now, after the 150th pre-dinner-party meltdown, with approximately 150 more to go, Julie and Julia are about to find a spot in my Goodwill book pile. And that's just not fair to Julia.

I WANT to get an iPhone. Really!

2009-07-01T21:19:00.000-07:00

Apple, take note: if you hadn't signed a partnership agreement with AT and T and left it all wide open, I'd be on my second or third iPhone by now. So would a lot of people. That's a lot of iPhone change that you ain't getting.

I'm still contemplating a switch. In fact, I would like to have an iPhone more than anything because I'm sorry, they're just cool. But after spending a day fighting with AT and T over a billing error from two years ago that I want to fix but CAN'T, I feel more than ever that AT and T is like that asshole person who, despite the fact that he is a complete dick, still has friends and romantic relationships.

Apple, what do you SEE in AT and T? What are you DOING with them? Why must I be torn between wanting something so totally bitchin' and being righteous and withholding my money from proven assmonkeys? No fair.

And AT and T? Wait a few years. When this dream relationship comes to an end and the iPhone and other, cooler gadgets to be named later are fair game for all providers, you are going to lose subscribers so fast your CRM system will melt into a pile on the floor. Unless you decide to Get It and realize--in telecom, customer service is all you got. Cool shiny phones and iron-clad partner contracts can only protect you for so long.

In the meantime, we got choices. We got Twitter. I'm not afraid to use either one. 20 million people are waiting to hear what I think of your lame ass. So figure it out.

Ahead of the curve

2009-06-24T20:44:00.000-07:00

I'm so rarely ahead of anyone on reading any book, but I have to say I'm proud of myself for committing to Infinite Jest last winter before the cool kids decided it was worth reading in a finite amount of time. Now I can say, as all of my friends pick it up for the summer and take the challenge, "eh. I read it in three months. And I was lazy." Of course, I was also escaping reality in a big way (successfully), but I persevered, and now I can watch Three Stooges cartoons while everyone else tries to make sense of Eschaton and the Quebecois movement. I love seeing all of my friends read over that first paragraph and thinking, ah, just you wait. It'll all make sense.

For the record, I highly recommend taking up the challenge. It's not for everyone, that's for sure, but I really enjoyed reading it. Not in the linear, yarn-spinning sense, but just because the writing was so damned fun to read. Give it a whirl. And don't forget to start over from the beginning when you finish. Trust me.

Not a peep

2009-04-11T21:51:00.000-07:00

Whither?

It's just not Easter without certain things. Baskets. Chocolate. Awkward uncomfortable gatherings at Grandma's house (oh, wait, that's just me). And Peeps. Sweet, sweet peeps.

Well, we're just going to have to cancel Easter because Peeps are AWOL in Boulder.

Because we have, you know, lives, we haven't been able to get our Easter shopping done early this year. We thought we'd be safe running into the giant Target near our house and stocking up on various traditional Easter goodies and Michael Graves springtime design items. I mean, who runs out of candy before Easter?

Target, that's who. By the time we got there today the shelves were picked clean of all but the nastiest jelly beans and some kind of weird circus peanut type thing that I can't even talk about. It was like Soviet Russia, except with more pastels. And worst of all? NO PEEPS. Anywhere.

I mean, who runs out of Peeps? Usually there are enough left over the day after Easter to build a new room onto your house. The checkers are slipping them into your bag, free with every purchase. You see those fuckers hardening on the shelves well into June. But this year, we went to three different places and they were all Peepless. I wonder if they've tightened the supply chain at the Peep factory, to reduce costs and more accurately target inventory during the recession? Another reason to hate AIG.

Now what are we supposed to do? What are we going to use to play Attack of the 50ft. Pink Chicken in the microwave? And what are we going to use to craft our artist's rendition of Christ on the cross? (c'mon, it's not like we EAT them, how crazy do you think we are?)

We've learned our lesson. In these trying economic times, shop early and often for Peeps. Next year, we'll buy a gross as soon as they hit the stores. That should give us enough for our microwave fun and our religious art. We'll have enough to sell on the Peeps black market. After a few months, we can even soundproof the basement.

Come ON already

2009-04-02T22:07:00.000-07:00

When my computer chugs along, trying to perform a momentous task like, oh, saving a document, it makes a sound like the engine of a plane when its in a holding pattern over the runway.

Circling over
and over
and over
again.

I don't like that sound.

Time for a new skirt

2009-01-18T20:20:00.000-08:00

When you see a skirt that you own on a mannequin in the window of the gift shop of the Walt Disney World Hilton, it's time to rethink your wardrobe. And by you I mean me.

Just sayin'.

News Flash: I am not on fire

2009-01-10T18:03:00.000-08:00

Once I moved out of California, I thought I'd never get the disaster-check call again (or its cousin, the disaster-check email). If you live anyplace where the ground shakes, burns, slides or suddenly becomes a lake, you KNOW what I mean. It's bad enough living in San Francisco and worrying about an earthquake--it's inevitable that someone, somewhere who is related to you will call if the seismograph quivers within 1000 MILES of the Bay Area and asking, "Are you okay?" or, "Did you feel that?". I mean, I appreciate the concern, but a 3.5 quake north of Eureka is not going to register really on a bedrock hill in Cole Valley.

We haven't had to deal with that as much in Boulder. Sure, there are little brushfires here and there, but it's not like someone is going to call and say, "Hey, we saw on the news that there were some clouds spotted over Aurora. Did you experience shade?"

But a few days ago, we had a big fire in the Boulder hills. Not a SoCal inferno, but enough of a blaze to cover a swath of the hillside above Olde Stage Road. Friends were evacuated. Critters got rescued. Houses burned. I came over the crest of Highway 36 on my way home from work and suddenly I was on a Costco run in 1991, rounding a corner on I-80 to see ALL OF THE OAKLAND HILLS turned into the center of hell.

When I started getting calls and emails inquiring about our safety, it dawned on me that unlike the Bay Area or the state of California, Boulder is actually kind of compact. It's entirely possible that if there's a fire in the hills we could be in it. I actually felt kind of bad that I didn't call the folks and let them know that we were safe and sound. So for those of you who haven't already called, I'm not on fire. I'm not even smoldering. We are here in the middle of town respectively playing Wii Fit, sacked out on the couch, reading Fudge-o-Mania with no pants on, and pretending to work. I'll leave it to you to guess who's doing what. But we're just fine. Thanks for asking.

This too shall pass

2009-01-09T20:47:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like being on page 1 of a 1,079 page book. I've decided to read Infinite Jest. I need a distraction, and I always liked ol' Dave. No one has ever captured the horrors of being on a cruise vacation better. And we sort of lived parallel lives, growing up in university towns in the middle of hick states. Except that he went on to be a brilliant writer and then killed himself, and I became, uh, me.

I remember when this book came out, back in the day. I was a young thing who thought, "Who the hell has time to sit and read that?" Not knowing, of course, that that precise moment was the most time I would ever, ever have in my adult life. Hindsight rocks.

I decided to reconsider the Infinite Book on the advice of my friend Hollie. First of all, I try to do everything Hollie says. And second of all, she said it took her three months to finish it.

Three months. That's a nice amount of time. Perfect for a fugue state.

See, I'm hoping to get so involved in this book that I sink into a literary fugue state that Sibyl would be proud of. A fugue state like the ones I often experience at Target, when I walk in to get a tube of toothpaste and walk out three hours later with three new outfits, a battery charger, a few throw pillows and a lawn game set.

And when I come out this time, I'll once again have the gift of hindsight.

There are certain points in time--like, say, 9/11--when you're in the middle of the shit and you think, I wish I could just fast forward 6 months. To a point when this tragedy is more of a memory. When life has indeed gone on. Frankly, I could use a good fast-forward button about now.

I'd like to close the binding on this book in April and realize that this too has passed. Knees are healed. Messes cleaned up. Avocations found. People who are extremely pissed at me, well.....less so. Hell, maybe I'll have forgiven myself.

I'll think, I've made it through the book and so much more. Then I'll pick up the next book, hopefully something really trashy (preferably bad science fiction) and keep moving forward. It's not that I want to escape. I just want it to be later. And I am happy to have this monstrous, wordy, gargantuan wank of a book to keep me company while later happens.

So if you'll excuse me, I have 1,078 pages to finish. Should be interesting. I'll let you know how it ends.

Election Day: play-by-play

2008-11-04T06:46:00.000-08:00

You may have heard that it's Election Day. I figure you don't need me to tell you to vote. (By the way: VOTE). Or to remind you that this is a historic day that will bring a historic end to a historic two-year run for office. I mean, duh.

What you do need me to do is chronicle the day from MY perspective. I'm taking the day off because a. I'm a total freakshow today and no good to anyone at work and b. what's happening today is more important than collaboration software or global business services. Sorry. It just is.

So I hereby devote this blog post to letting you know EXACTLY how I'm spending this momentous day. Because you care.

7:56 am: Pacing like a cat. And typing! I multitask.

8:45 am: Dropped Tea off at school. She voted. All I can say is, if the amendment to provide two tape stories before naptime doesn't pass, we're gonna break shit up.

Yeah, she voted. And she goes to the ACORN school. What about it?

10:30 am: Ninety minutes until volunteer time. What to do? Go to Starbucks and get my free cup of coffee (aka the LAST thing I need)? Or stand 101 feet outside the Whittier polling place and heckle? Decisions, decisions.

11:35 am: Off to 16th and Pearl to get out that vote! Contemplated taking Vito with me (Vote Obama or the dog gets it!) but he would rather stay here and snooze. Wondering what I'll do if they have me knocking on doors. Sample conversation:

"Did you vote?"

"Yes"

"Okay then!"

We'll see. Back soon with a full report.

I voted early. Piss off.

12: 15 pm: At the Obama staging area on Pearl, trying to figure out what the hell to do. There are a lot of people talking on cell phones. And there are a LOT of volunteers. Enough to canvass my neighborhood about 10 times over. This is good! Except, we're all in Boulder, which is a sure thing. This is bad!

I go up to Organizing Dude and say, is there anywhere we can go where they actually NEED us? Next thing I know, I'm driving me and a really nice lady named Amina to Arvada. Be careful what you wish for.

1-4 pm: Knocking on doors in the burbs, la la la. Once again I'm struck by how much canvassing reminds me of trick-or-treating. Except the payoff comes later, and it's uncertain. Whee. I get a lot of not-home voters (working class people who are....working! Surprise.)

And people who are home? See sample conversation above. I talk to one woman who is just getting in her car to go vote (we do the Obama club fist-bump) and a 12-year-old latchkey girl who says her mom is not home, but "She's voting for Obama today, so no worries."

Word at Obama headquarters is, there are more than a million people volunteering today to get out the vote. Awesome.

5:37 pm: Hey look! The Medill alumni magazine is here! This should be a fascinating diversion to keep my mind off the election! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

6:38 pm:

Will it be a champagne night, or a Boone's Farm night?

9:55 pm: Four years ago, I was sitting at my friend Kevin Cobb's house at the Worst. Party Ever. Apologies to poor Kevin, it was like a fucking morgue. I was almost 3 months pregnant with Tea. In the haze, I just remember sitting there thinking: I'm depressed. I'm pregnant. And I'm SOBER. It was a horrible way to spend a Tuesday night.

I just left a party with a dozen people cheering, a whole lot of them crying. Waking up their friends and relatives to share the celebration. I'm still stunned. Tomorrow, I'll wake up and I'll go back to my impossible deadlines and the demands of parenting and, well, a lot of shit. But tonight? I'm floating. As I wait for Obama to take the stage with my sleeping kid beside me, I can finally, totally, absolutely let myself have Hope.

Thank you, America. Onward.

That's it. Right there.

Low standards: friend or foe?

2008-10-10T05:52:00.001-07:00

This fixes EVERYTHING.

Things have been pretty bleak around the office. Oh, we're doing fine. But we've lost a few really cool and talented people, and there's a whole lotta uncertainty about whether our fine clients will continue to spend money given the economic climate. Morale is down.

Last week, my co-worker Cat and I decided that we couldn't take it any more. We needed to inject a little good cheer into the mix. We brought in Peet's coffee and a box of 3 dozen donuts. We put them on the little kitchen cart and wheeled them around the office, serving donuts to our peers. Why? Just because. Everyone needs donuts.

We didn't realize how MUCH everyone needs donuts. Oh my god. As we rolled our cart from department to department, it was like we were the liberators marching into Paris during WWII. People were over the moon. Like, WAY over. It was like we were handing out $50 bills instead of donuts. They were grabbing two, three at a time.

Over and over they asked: "What's the occasion?" "It's Wednesday." And then their heads would explode.

It was a box of fuckin' donuts. Granted, LaMar's makes a tasty donut, but wow. I knew morale was bad, but I had no idea how starved people were for some kind of happy surprise, anything, to remind them that they rock.

People: You deserve donuts. And so much more. We ALL do.

The next day I watched the vice-presidential debate. Sarah Palin ignored the questions. She stuck to lame talking points. She WINKED. She basically sucked, BUT. She didn't say that she could see Russia from Alaska, and she stayed away from the Bush Doctrine, and she didn't suffer any sort of wardrobe malfunction.

So the media and the conservatives declared the debate: A TIE!

Now I know that Sarah Palin probably looks a whole lot like a box of donuts after 8 years of Bush/Cheney (who, to me, are the equivalent of a box of shit sandwiches.) But do you really declare satisfaction, even triumph, because the potential second-in-command didn't do something outright retarded? Is that really what we think we're worthy of?

I love low standards as much as the next person. They've allowed me to enjoy several really stupid movies, and they've gotten me through countless family gatherings. But they can't be the ONLY standards. Just because Tommy Boy totally cracked my shit up, should that be the gold standard for all movies? No no NO!!! (Okay, yes. But NO!) We should continue to demand the best. We want Lawrence of Arabia, dammit.

I'm sure that in the coming year, with this sucktastic economy, low standards will come in handy. They will get us through. But Cat and I upped the ante to waffles for everyone this week. Maybe next week we'll pass out the good beer. It's okay to accept the little triumphs, but we still need to always, always remember. We. Deserve. Better.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop some champagne because my daughter pooped in the potty. Low standards, indeed.

Too scary, even for Halloween

2008-10-01T05:23:00.000-07:00

Now that it's officially October, I need to address a very important issue.

Last week, I made a comment about going as Sarah Palin for Halloween, and about dressing up my 3-year-old daughter as an impregnated Bristol Palin.

I'm not here to apologize for that statement. Because I still think it would be freakin' hilarious. I want to talk about something that's bigger than one tasteless Halloween costume. I'm talking about the fact that every single woman in the United States is planning to dress up as Sarah Palin for Halloween. (And in the case of the Castro, every single man AND woman.)

Ladies. I can understand the impulse. It's timely. It's cheap. It involves virtually no work at all except putting on glasses and looking disturbingly vacant. It's a great idea. I'm glad you thought of it, and I know that you thought of it first. You're really funny.

No.

But think of the implications. Halloween is about diversity (okay, it's about candy but let's pretend it's about diversity). You can't have every party, every street overflowing with Sarah Palins. The sameness would be heartbreaking. It would be like a cross between the Republican National Convention and Where's Waldo.

Oh HELL no. But you get the idea.

Dare to be different. Go as a ghost. The slutty cat costume is always a good standby. Or how about that costume where you dress up as a salt shaker, and your husband goes as pepper? That one's really cute.

If you must be Sarah, I guess the only acceptable solution is for all of us to coordinate, band together, and go out for an old-fashioned night of ultra-violence. So if you want to throw on that padded blazer and join the crowd to burn up cars Detroit-style, call me! I have glasses!

At least something's going up!

2008-09-29T21:30:00.001-07:00

The good news is, something reached an all-time high today.

The bad news is, it was the water level in our basement.

Today, before the looooong client meetings, before the Dow took a giant crap all over the retirement plans of America, our sump pump decided to kick off the day in style...and kick the bucket. Rick came downstairs to find that our lower level was very slowly being reclaimed by the creek that runs under our house. Not good. Not good at all.

THIS is PRECISELY why we decided that a stained concrete floor would be Just Fine down there. Although being right is no consolation when water is slowly seeping through the cracks of said concrete on the floor of your kid's room.

Fortunately, we caught it early, so Rick was able to call many plumbers, get a new pump, evaluate why the old pump went bust, and discuss long-term solutions with our new plumbing friends. He worked hard, which is why I found him basically curled up in a ball in the corner of the basement when I got home, obsessively timing the intervals between sump pump activity while it pumped the excess water away (27 seconds, for those of you playing at home.)

Now I'm sitting here listening to the sump working. It is a little unnerving. I don't like it. I don't like that I can look down the hole in our basement and say hi to the water, taunting me, about a foot away from flooding our basement floor. I don't like that we have to keep the cover off the sump pump hole until the plumbers come back tomorrow, which means that Gianni's room is temporarily the Radon Suite at the Hotel Polito.

All I can say is, it's a good thing we decided not to stuff all our money in Gianni's mattress. There's a bright side to everything.

Quien es mas macho?

2008-09-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

A huge chunk of my conversation at a party tonight centered around one crucial question:

Who would win in a fight, Rock'em Sock'em Robots, or Hungry Hungry Hippos?

That is a tough one. I mean, if it were regular hippos, there would be no contest. Hippos are bad motherfuckers. They would take the robots down. But those are the big gray hippos that weigh a ton and wait quietly in the river for an opportunity to ambush. But the little pink and yellow hippos that swallow white balls? Let's analyze.

Hungry hungry hippos: small, plastic, smiling. But still hippos. They have impressive reach and quick reflexes. And did I mention: HUNGRY?

Rock'em sock'ems: Taller, pretty tough in their own right. But their range of motion is for shit. And they waste half of their punches swinging at air.

I give it to the hippos, in 12 rounds, decision.

No, we weren't stoned, why do you ask?

The dog ate my talking points

2008-09-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

John McCain! Did you seriously say that you want to cancel the presidential debate because we need to focus on the economy? Did you really say that you plan to take a break from campaigning for the next few days, one of those days being the day of the first debate? And was it really suggested that we reschedule your debate for October 2, the date of the vice presidential debate, in turn postponing that one?

Because even I didn't think you were that big of a pussy. But way to prove me wrong!

Guess what I'm doing on Friday, John? I'm going to Omaha. For one day. I don't want to go to Omaha, even for one day. (No offense, Omaha.) I want to stay here. I want to do Other Stuff. I want to help my husband prepare for our son's birthday party instead of leaving him holding the bag. (A metaphor for our current economic situation? Perhaps.) But you know what? I'm going to Omaha. Why? Because IT'S MY JOB. I'm going to be interviewing a bank executive. That's right, a bank executive. He's not taking the day off to mourn the financial crisis, and he WORKS IN A BANK.

Some may argue that your job is being a senator, and as such you should be in Washington helping to give Henry Paulsen absolute power over everything in the known universe. I say: bullshit. Your job right now is to run for president. Your job is to prove that you can multitask like a motherfucker. There are lots of very smart people working very hard on getting the economy under control right now. And you know, I think they can manage without you. In fact, I really think you've done enough, my friend.

The place you need to be right now is onstage, with a microphone, telling me exactly why I should let you anywhere near a major financial crisis. I think it's going to take a lot of convincing, so I'm going to stop ranting so you have enough time to study up and find a pair of balls before the big debate. Good luck with that. See you Friday!

Palin in comparison

2008-09-22T19:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough week. The economy--blecch. And I turned 39, which is apparently the year that my warranty expires. I'm not kidding. One night, I was out to dinner and drinking a nice bottle of wine, and then next morning my wheels fell off. I managed to hobble over to the doctor, who diagnosed me with the winning combination of strep throat and pinkeye. I felt like the carpet at Tea's preschool. On Friday, I was supposed to spend with Gianni doing Something Fun. Instead I spent the day lying in quarantine on my couch, catching up on "Mad Men."

And now I have to wear my glasses. Because of the pinkeye, my doctor nixed contacts for at least a week. I actually just bought new glasses. They were cool when I bought them. But when I put them on last week, I saw only one thing.

Sarah. Fucking. Palin.

That's right. I'm the spitting image. At least, it makes me want to spit. I can't believe it. One day you think you're upgrading your look with some fashionable frames. The next day, John McCain chooses a running mate.

It's not fair. God damn it, glasses are supposed to make you look SMARTER.

At least now I have half of my Halloween costume. I just need to get that prosthetic bump for Tea.

What do the mayor of Gotham and Adam Ant have in common?

2008-07-27T05:40:00.000-07:00

Vote for me. I'm desperate, but not serious.

I saw The Dark Knight yesterday.

Whoa. Wow. Damn. Yikes. etcetera. As you've probably read and heard from everyone else by now, it's fantastic. Amazing effects. Heath Ledger giving the performance of his (sadly finished) life. Christian Bale, still hot. A riveting story that asks a lot of questions about good, evil and humanity.

But there was one question that went unanswered for me. One that dogs me still.

Why was the mayor of Gotham wearing eyeliner?

I mean, we all know why The Joker was wearing makeup. He's off his fucking nut. But why did the mayor look like he should be fronting Spandau Ballet? Gavin Newsom has the hair gel, but this is ridiculous. It bugged me enough that every time the mayor was onscreen, it's all I thought about. And considering how hard Gary Oldman worked, that's not really fair, is it?

Was he experimenting with gender bending, like the cute little Asian barista who gets me my latte at Starbucks? Was he secretly in cahoots with The Joker, wearing kohl in solidarity? (c'mon, The Joker didn't try THAT HARD to kill him.) Maybe it's a Gotham public sector thing, and Commissioner Gordon has a garter belt on under his suit. This really needs to be explained in the next film.

And if you ask me, the mayor concentrates too much liner on his lower lid. He needs to draw more emphasis to the outer corners of his deep-set eyes. I mean, if you're going to do it, go big or go home.

Steal this trash

2008-07-18T19:57:00.000-07:00

So.

I came out to my car this morning and all four windows were open. So was the sunroof. Now, I've been a little crazed this week, but I don't recall leaving the car wide open at any point yesterday.
That leaves two possibilities:

1. While unloading the car yesterday, Rick somehow accidentally triggered the windows and sunroof to open (My car is full of these little surprises)
2. Someone, somehow, got the windows down despite the definite locked-ness of my car. To do...something.

God I hope it's not number 2. Because that would blow. There has been a rash of burglaries in Boulder this summer. We've had our Burley trailer and a scooter stolen already. Losing an entire frickin' car would put me over the edge. I've seen that movie before and I hated the ending.

There's also the possibility that they didn't want the car, but rather the stuff piled in it. Of which there is much. If that's the case, the joke is on them. Because my car is basically a big rolling garbage bin. It's not surprising that they didn't want to steal any of my 27 empty water bottles. Or my three-week-old Boulder Weekly. Or that cornucopia of crumbs and dried fruit remnants that my kids are collecting in the back. I would estimate the total value of my car's contents to be about 3 cents and an empty GoGurt tube. (All of which, coincidentally, is probably IN my car right now!)

That's too bad. Because they didn't take any of that trash, and now I have to clean out my own damn car. Bummer. If they were going to break in, at least they could be useful.

Oh well. More incentive to actually be able to park my car in my garage. The contents of which are worth 4 cents. And Bret Michaels.

The shittiest president ever

2008-07-17T21:08:00.001-07:00

Pardon me, can you please direct me to the GEORGE W. BUSH SEWAGE PLANT?

Oh, how I wish I were still a San Francisco voter.

This November, there will be an initiative on the San Francisco ballot to rename the Oceanside Water Pollution Control Plant the George W. Bush Sewage Plant. Swear to god. Some guy thought of the idea after several beers with friends. Then he put on an Uncle Sam suit, gathered 12,000 signatures and made it happen. Democracy kicks ass.

I'm considering moving back immediately so I can re-register and vote for it. Not that they will even need my help. There is just no way this thing is not gonna pass. And no matter how fancy and schmancy W's presidential library is, no matter how many speaking engagements he gives, even if he lays in state in the Capitol rotunda after a long life, there will be a shit treatment plant with his name on it.

It's a common and correct assumption that a sewage plant is pretty gross. People, you have no idea. My grandmother worked for many years for the City of Indianapolis. Her last job before she retired was in the office of the Indianapolis sewage treatment facility. One time I was visiting Grandma for the weekend, so my mom dropped me off with her on Friday afternoon at work. I cannot even desribe the stench. To this day I have never been anywhere that smelled so foul. Imagine 750,000 people dropping a dook in the same spot at the same time. Yup. I remember thinking, "Wow, Grandma must've really screwed the pooch to end up in this job." I was only there for a half hour and I'm still traumatized by it.

And now, people will smell that vile odor and think of our president. Not that they don't already. But it'll be official.

Only in Boulder

2008-07-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the Farmer's Market last night:

"Dude, you are an embarrassment to Ultimate Frisbee."

Casper the emotional dagger

2008-07-01T21:11:00.000-07:00

Friendly Ghosts and pregnancy hormones do not mix

Casper the movie was on TV tonight. You already know this because you all TiVoed it, don't lie. We watched it with Gianni because it is a fairly non-sucky kid movie, as these things go. I know this because I've already seen it. Oh, yes I have. About 3.7 years ago, Casper the Friendly Ghost nearly did me in.

At the time, I was pregnant with Tea and desperate to veg out with some premium channels. Casper was the best thing on (sad, isn't it? Somehow I just wasn't up for the HBO world premiere of Catwoman.)

So I watched our favorite friendly ghost in his first feature film, got into the plot (believe me, they packed a lot of nuance into those other three mean ghosts). Ninety minutes later, Rick came in to find me on the couch, sobbing my eyes out at the heart-tugging ending. Goes without saying that I will never, ever live that down. I hadn't cried so hard since I watched Babe 2: Pig in the City when I was pregnant with Gianni. Or as my friend Marjorie refers to it, "The Shoah of talking pig movies."

A week later, my friend Miranda, who was also pregnant, told me that she had a hard time sitting through Hotel Rwanda. I told her, "I lost it at the end of Casper the Friendly Ghost. I don't think Hotel Rwanda is on my dance card."

Anyway--we watched it tonight and I sat through the ending and realized, oh my god, I was a hormonal idiot. I mean, not even the slightest bit heart-tugging. I think Gianni and Tea actually stopped watching to do their taxes during that part of the movie. It's amazing what a little pregnancy can do to a body.

Imagine what would have happened if Casper were haunting the Hotel Rwanda. I never would have made it.

I'll try the organic shit-on-a-shingle and a nice pinot noir

2008-06-24T20:47:00.000-07:00

We are home and trying to catch up on all of the news we missed on our trip to Greece. (Tim Russert? George Carlin? Who knew. RIP, gentlemen.)

Rick had our tv uncharacteristically blaring MSNBC for most of the evening. While I was wading through my 400 or so work emails in anticipation of my re-entry tomorrow, Rick suddenly said: You have GOT to see this.

It turns out that there is a military-themed burger joint in Beirut called--get this--Buns n' Guns. I shit you not. Go look it up. (I'm jetlagged, URLs are hard today). It has camouflage decor and guys in military garb serving up grilled treats with stupid army names. It's moronic, and, given the location, perhaps a teeny bit offensive. But that's not the reason Rick called me in.

We looked at one another and shouted: "They opened TAKE ORDERS!!"

You might think this was the first military mess-themed restaurant to open in our lifetime. You would be so wrong. In the mid-nineties in San Francisco, someone actually opened a restaurant called Take Orders. It was in the hip and food-chic mission district, right on 16th Street between the cool little tapas place and the renowned Bretagne crepe place. It had an olive-drab facade, camouflage netting above the entrance and bleak metal tables. It served dorky army-themed food. And it was quite possibly the stupidest restaurant we'd ever seen.

Think about it. A restaurant designed after an Army mess hall, a place that God knows is not known for its fine cuisine. In San Francisco, where hipster liberal foodies are not so much about restaurants glorifying military food service. It was SO ridiculous on so many levels I could spend a whole day lost in thought, wondering who the hell figured they would actually make money on this place.

We never ate there, just mocked it, but believe it or not we did have friends who tried it. (You shall remain nameless, although YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE). No surprise, it sucked. It closed after a few months and was replaced by a groovy sushi joint that blasted electronica, a much more fitting establishment.

But Take Orders 2.0 lives on! In Beirut! Somewhere there is some poor schmuck saying, see? It was an idea ahead of its time. Or maybe its the SAME GUY. Maybe this one will fail and they'll just open one up in Baghdad. Third time's a charm!

Greece: It doesn't suck

2008-06-17T22:39:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Greece!

I would post using the traditional Greek greeting, but I'm embarrassed to say that I am still not quite sure what it is. I am trying to learn at least a word or two of Greek so not to appear like a complete American ass, but it'll probably take me until the end of the week. So far I've managed to fake "hello" and "thank you." I'm still scared to ask for the check, which sounds something like "I'm having an orgasm." Could be awkward.

We've been here since Friday and I've gotta say this is one of the best vacations I've ever had. Our little boat is, f0r the most part, lovely. We haven't sunk it yet. The islands so far:

Paros: Okay. Kinda boring. But peaceful.
Naxos: Lovely. Great clothes. Nice bars. Excellent liqueur.
Mykonos: Sucked donkey dick. Too many tourists, a shitty port a considerable hike from town, expensive, smelled like poo. Needed to drink all of the liqueur from Naxos in order to cope. Feh. But we did take an excellent jaunt to the sacred island of Delos (ruins o' plenty, by far the highlight of the trip).

And we did have drinks with two very nice 24-year-olds who work for Halliburton (that's right) and make six figs serving cafeteria food to contract workers in Baghdad. Exactly.

Which brings us to Tinos. After the hell that was Mykonos, we just wanted to get the fuck out to somewhere, anywhere. The closest island was Tinos--we knew next to nothing about Tinos--the guidebooks had a few paragraphs about it being a religious pilgrimage site for the Greek Orthodoxy, and that's it. We had not given it much thought, not being into the God stuff, but at this point being Not Mykonos far outweighed any God-hopping that we might encounter.

Turns out--Tinos? Fucking awesome. As opposed to the Mykonos "port" where they didn't even have a power hookup or water, Tinos had a delightful toothless gentleman named Dimitri who met our boat, helped us tie off, offered us myriad services, and did everything but give us a foot massage. We're not sure if he actually works for the port or just has a very excellent scam going (he was scarce when the cops came by), but we gave him 20 euro regardless because he was nice to us. Because we're just that needy. Then we had fucking awesome food and looked at fucking awesome jewelry, and now I'm in this fucking awesome Internet cafe having a cappuccino and killing a little time before a long day of hiking and beaching. It sucks not.

What day is it again?

Technology is evil. Or is it good?

2008-06-09T19:07:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here on the couch in my family room, in front of my nice TV. I'm about to watch a movie....on my computer. You may be thinking to yourself, "Well, that's retarded." And you'd be right. But I'm on a mission and our wacked-out entertainment center configuration will not thwart me.

It's like this: Rick and the kids are back in Indiana with the P's. I'm here, because I just love to work and want to get a few more good days in. Point is, I'm at home. By myself. With a TV. I have about 18 months' worth of films to catch up on. I don't ever, ever watch TV or movies. And it's not because I'm a sanctimonious douche who thinks that television is mind-numbing crap. Hey, my kids watch plenty of TV. They're the only ones. Between work and outdoor activities and kid activities (I guess those aren't mutually exclusive, huh) I barely have time to watch a commercial or a film trailer, let alone a feature-length extravaganza.

So here I am, ready to roll with some popcorn and a copy of Superbad. I turn on all of the apparati and...I have sound! And...that's all I have! No picture. Nuthin. I get cable and a DVD menu soundtrack that promises 90 minutes of unapologetic raunch, but for the life of me, I can't get the DVD picture to come up onscreen. I call Rick. He is marginally helpful but he can't figure it out either.

Okay, I was a bit grumpy on the phone but I'm sorry. Last night I watched There Will Be Blood. Not only did I think that the only impressive thing about it was Daniel Day Lewis' ability to chew scenery like no one else, but god--bummer. I felt like I needed a prozac chaser after that one.

I have had this copy of Superbad since Christmas (thanks Dad!) and I have not been able to carve out two hours to watch it. I've either been surrounded by kids or it's been 3 a.m. So goddammit tonight I'm going to watch something rude and inappropriate or die trying. You can't stop me, demon technology. I'm going to use OTHER technology to make my dream happen. And also to share my experience with people who don't really care about my G-rated hell.

Now where do I put the DVD? And what is this cupholder thing?

Like The Jeffersons, but with more flushing

2008-06-06T19:27:00.001-07:00

I just got promoted. I know, yay me.

It's pretty exciting. I've been here less than a year and I'm overjoyed and flattered that the powers that be feel I am ready to go to the next level, or at least I'm ready to fake being ready. That's a huge vote of confidence.

I know I've come a long way in that time. I've gone from a writer of deliverables I'd never created about things I'd never written about to being a subject matter expert in a pretty high-profile area. I've gone from being a lone wolf to being part of a team, and now the boss of really talented and cool people.

But there's another metric I use to gauge that I've really arrived. I think it says it all.

When I started last June, I was assigned to the best cube available. And by that, I mean the best cube available to someone completely lacking in seniority in an office with a fully staffed creative team. I got the toilet cube.

That's right, my cube was right next to the john. Of course, I was not in a position to complain and having worked at home with my children, husband and dog, it's safely established that I can work through anything. (I type this while simultaneously answering a question about the meaning of life for my son and detangling a toy from an embarrassing wealth of twist ties.)

But still. A flush is a flush. And two dozen flushes a day can really rob you of your self esteem and sense of worth in a company. I could hear everything. In consolation, I knew it wasn't as bad as the toilet office on the other side of the building, where it sounded like people were squatting right next to your desk. However, I still had to deal with some less-than-genteel noise, and with people balancing their notebooks and coffee cups and shit on the walls of my cube while they hit the head. I'm a good citizen, though, I figured things would change someday.

A few months after I started, an editor with a bit of seniority left and through a strange twist of good fortune, I became the one with enough longevity points to take over her cube. So I moved a little further from the toilet and closer to the awesome writers with whom I've established a great deal of love over the last 8 months.

The ultimate position of privelege for a non muckety-muck type at my company is a cube by the window. With this exulted spot, you gain a little more natural light and a lovely view of Highway 36 and StorageTek. (The fuckers on the other side get to look at the Flatirons. Not that I'm bitter.)

In the last two weeks, I got promoted and two managerial types with window seats announced that they were respectively leaving and going remote. That meant of course we were losing some amazing talent. But it also meant there were two window spots open. And as a now-manager, I get first crack.

So in less than a year, I've gone from toilet cube to window cube. I don't know if that's a record, but I feel it's significant and I'm pretty proud. Best of all, I get to stay in my row with my peeps, just one seat closer to the window. Win-win.

But I'll never forget where I came from. Every time I hear a flush, I'll think of my roots. It keeps me humble. Movin' on up, indeed.

You talkin' to me, sonny?

2008-06-03T20:40:00.000-07:00

Something happened yesterday that left me walking around thinking I'm All That. I was at the light at Pine and Folsom the other day, driving my family truckster. I saw two mountain bikes pull up directly behind my car and observed that the twentysomething guys riding them seemed to be hopping. And waving. They must see someone they know. Whatevs.

Then the bikes pull up next to me. The guys keep waving in my direction. I seriously do the thing where you look around to see if someone else is there receiving the wave. Then I look around and wonder if I have a flat tire or a "Wave if You Think I'm a Jackass" bumper sticker. Nope.

I am used to doing the big city AVOID AVOID AVOID thing, but I had to see what was happening. I looked over and they were definitely waving to me. Trying to get my attention. Because? Call me crazy but I think they actually thought I was cute. The guy closest to me definitely had that "How YOU doin'" look on his face.

I figured that there must be some mistake. I mean, it's me. Do you not see the dueling car seats? Or the crow's feet? Is this Be Nice to a Tired Working Mom Day? As far as I could tell, there was no ulterior motive. Either my windows have some kind of soft lighting filter, or I was lookin' pretty fine. Nice.

They motioned for me to roll down my window. "Are you going left?" the extra-friendly guy asked.
"Yeah."
"Great! So are we!" Mmmmmkay!

Then the moment went from being a mere ego boost to the most hilarious thing that's happened to me this month (granted, it was June 2, but I'm not sure anyone can top this.) The other guy was hopping around on his bike, doing little tricks, basically showing off and smiling at me. Then....he fell right over. Yep. Right on his ass, next to my car. It was the comic timing of the century.

As someone whose motto is, "It's only funny until someone gets hurt...then it's hilarious," it cracked my ass right up. Especially when the guy jumped up with this happy goofball look on his face, arms raised, as if to say, "Hey! I'm okay! Thanks for watching, and be sure to visit the gift shop on your way out!"

Then sadly the light turned green and the floor show was over. We all turned left, but speed separated us. Still, I could see my admirer waving at me as I drove away. It was a golden moment, where I got to feel all hot and stuff and also got to laugh heartily at someone else's misfortune. What could be more perfect than that? I'm still smiling.

I'm off to walk past some construction workers now. I'm on a roll.

"Mom, this vacation sucks"

2008-05-20T20:43:00.001-07:00

I got out of jail free this morning to attend a seminar on server and desktop virtualization. It was every single bit as exciting as it sounds. They raffled off a textbook (which I DIDN'T WIN, dammit). And I'm pretty sure the entire first row of attendees speaks Klingon as their first language.

But I appreciated the time away from work. How often does one get the chance to drive across Denver during rush hour to the sleepy hamlet of Greenwood Village? Not often enough, I say.

Anyway, I saw the weirdest thing ever during my bathroom break. As I approached the ladies' room, I heard talking. Okay, fairly normal. And music. Okay, weirder. Then I heard the unmistakable horror that is the Dragon Tales theme song. In the lobby bathroom of the Doubletree Hotel. Um.

Did you know that modern technology allows us to embed a flat TV screen into a bathroom mirror? And that four out of five conventioneers like to watch PBS Kids before and after they take a pee? Okay I made the last one up, but I swear to God. There was a TV in there and it was tuned into wholesomely lame cartoons.

Zack and Weezy, don't forget to wipe!

Why? Why?? I can only think of two valid reasons. One, they want to make sure that you return to your boring virtualization seminar post-haste--no lingering in the bathroom! So they play the most hideous saccharine kids' shows known to man. It's the same logic as playing loud bad music in public restrooms so the homeless don't set up housekeeping, or playing Billy Ray Cyrus full blast in the 7-11 parking lot so those damn kids don't loiter.

Or, it could be this--some vacation resort hotels have Kids' Clubs. If Mom and Dad need a little alone time during the trip, they can drop the kids off at Kids' Club for a combination of babysitting and day camp--swimming, crafts, other fun. Maybe the bathroom TV was the Doubletree's children's program, a poor man's Kids' Club. "Honey, Mommy and Daddy are going out to dinner, just go on into the john and watch PBS until we get back."

Jeez, at least give them Spongebob. After all, it is the bathroom.

Oops, I did it again

2008-04-25T16:18:00.000-07:00

D'oh.

I read Maureen Dowd. Again. WHY do I always do that?

When I was a kid, I had a hallucination that I read a hilarious Family Circus cartoon. God, it must have been great. Because every single day, I read Family Circus without fail, thinking that THIS WAS THE DAY it would be hilarious again. And? It wasn't. It painfully, stupidly wasn't. It was the dotted line following Billy around the room, or somebody breaking a vase and blaming it "Not Me!" Har har har. And once again, there were at least 30 seconds of my life that I would never get back.

It's not just me. It's a phenomenon. As the cute drug dealer in the movie Go says, "It's just sitting there on the page, waiting to suck," and I just. Kept. Looking. Eventually I stopped, and never read Family Circus again (except for the sublime and legendary Dysfunctional Family Circus before the lawyers shut it down. Who knew Bil Keane had no sense of humor? Other than everyone who ever read Family Circus?)

What I'm trying to say is, Maureen Dowd is like Family Circus. She's just sitting on the Times op-ed page, waiting to suck. And I fall for it every time, because somewhere in my past, I read a column that was brilliant. Right? Didn't I? I'm sure I did. Anyway, I always read it and I always end up rolling my eyes and wishing I'd just stuck with Paul Krugman.

Actually, on the scale of suck, Wednesday wasn't so bad. Not anything earth-shattering, just the totally unnecessary use of the word Brobdingnagian (to describe finger-wagging? Huh?). And Maureen passing off Art Buchwald's old Marvin K. Mooney joke, which was really funny...when he made it, about 35 years ago. She even acknowledged that it was his, and repeated it, laming it up in her own special way. Sigh.

If there's a dysfunctional parody of Maureen Dowd out there, I'm all over it. Just point the way. With Brobdingnagian finger-wagging.

ALL HAIL SUNFLOWER MARKET

2008-04-23T21:20:00.000-07:00

Every day I have a brief moment of silence for the loss of Trader Joe's from my life. At the risk of sounding like one of those annoying city-folk transplants who is always whining, "I reeeeally miss (IKEA, the subway, real bagels, cynicism, etcetera) it does suck to the max that Colorado has zero Trader Joe's presence. I mean, good god, this state probably leads the world in trail mix consumption. Where else are all the rich hippies in Boulder going to shop when they get sick of Whole Foods?

I know that the Colorado liquor weasels blanch at the thought of a store that distributes its own cheap, decent wine. And I also know that there ain't no way Trader Joe's is coming here if they can't sell beer and wine, their bread and butter. But I think I speak for all of the outlanders here when I say that I would gladly give up the Two Buck Chuck to be reunited with my chili spice mango. There is no substitute.

Until now.

Last week, Sunflower Market opened in Boulder. It's not TJ's, but it's pretty darned close. Plastic containers filled with nuts and candy. Tasty produce. Lotsa cheese and crackers. Good stuff.

But wait! It's better! Sunflower has an actual, living breathing meat department, the lack of which was Trader Joe's achilles heel for me. And it also has my new favorite snack--Caramel Corn Puffs. Or as I like to call them, Insane Crack Nuggets. These are basically caramel corn without all that pesky corn. I swear, the only corn in these guys is in the corn syrup that they shellac on the outside of these puffs. I seriously have to have Rick hide them from me or I would eat them continuously. God they're amazing. Thank you, Sunflower Market, for thinking of me in my time of PMS.

Trader Joe's will always have a special place in my heart, but Sunflower now fills the void.

I'm back, and I'm SPARKLY!

2008-04-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

So....hi!

By popular demand (hi Kristen) I'm back and making a concerted effort to blog more than once every six weeks. I forgot that many of you are on maternity leave, or don't have jobs, or have jobs and don't want to do them, and reading about the daily workings of my life is the one thing that keeps you going. So I pledge to think of your needs from now on.

Just to catch up, since February I've been through:

A basement remodel
Some snow
A business continuity campaign
A funeral
Florida
Annual objectives
A whopping tax bill

Which brings us to yesterday, and two momentous events: Tea's third birthday party and the delivery of the last of our new furniture, making our house more or less complete. Because I always say, the best time to have furniture delivered is an hour before your daughter's birthday party begins. And the best way to ensure a long life for said furniture is to immediately let a dozen small kids jump on it for a few hours. With and without shoes.

But I in such a state of euphoria brought on by a. having furniture not covered in dog hair and b. having a daughter who is THAT MUCH CLOSER to being potty trained that I could overlook a little couch chaos. A few hundred sticky fingerprints on the Noguchi coffee table? NO PROBLEM. I think margaritas helped this.

Tea's party had an extra special side effect that I didn't expect, yet is completely cool. T got several fancy girly dress-up gifts that had that essential ingredient for 3-year-old fabulousness--glitter, and lots of it. After three hours of Tea strutting through the house in her new fairy wings and pink ballet skirt, our new couches and rug are covered in a layer of fairy dust. Everything sparkles with an extra princessy glint. And you know what? I kinda like it. I think it lends just the right mid-century space-age bachelor pad look to the place. I think I'll keep it.

If Design Within Reach were run by 3-year-old girls...

Next on the interior design agenda: Dora the Explorer. And lots of it.

Crushing on Bobby Fischer

2008-02-10T07:46:00.000-08:00

Hey good lookin', come here often?

If you haven't read Dick Cavett's essay/obituary about chess great Bobby Fischer, published yesterday in his Times blog, go there now. (Or rather, go there after you've read every scintillating word of this blog.)

Cavett tells a poignant story about being one of the only people ever to show the world a relaxed, almost jocular side of the notoriously intense and prickly Fischer. Fisher appeared three times on Cavett's show, both just before and just after his legendary match with Boris Spassky in '72. Cavett's account of that time is very moving--I can't do it justice describing it here, just go read it.

On the video clip of Fischer's first appearance, you see a young man who is clearly brilliant, clearly dead serious about his vocation. But behind those eyes you catch a glimmer of humor and even a bit of longing for a chance to step away from his obligations as the world's greatest chess player. To my untrained eye, there's no hint of the raving, paranoid self-hating wack job who came later. In that clip, you almost see a 25-year-old guy like any other. Almost.

What I didn't expect to see is this: In his heyday, Bobby Fischer was a stone fox. I always assumed he was your garden-variety greasy nerd, straight from central casting. But oh, no no. In the Cavett clip he's tall. Broad-shouldered. Wavy hair. Soulful eyes. Full lips. Excuse me, I need to go fan myself.

What can I say, I'm a sucker for tall handsome guys with an IQ of 200.

I feel completely weird crushing out on someone who, in later years, resembled that homeless guy ranting loudly to himself up and down Market Street. In other words, it wouldn't have worked out between us. But if I were an 18-year-old girl in 1971, for two and a half minutes it would have been magic.

Whoops

2008-02-06T05:37:00.000-08:00

There's only one picture on this blog right now--it might as well be of puppies

Picasa is a wonderful thing. You can catalog your photos! Create albums! And share them! Wow.

But you know what it's not great for? Telling you that that album of old blog pictures is not just a repository, it's a link to all the photos on your blog. So when you decide that people viewing your public Picasa gallery probably don't want to sift through old photos of a donuts and Japanese pencils, you inadvertently delete all of the pictures in your blog.

This is what we geniuses refer to as a Design Flaw. Whether the flaw is in Picasa or my own brain, that's still up for debate.

Bottom line: can't see the pictures on my blog? Neither can anyone else. The IT staff is working furiously to resolve the issue. Soon, my lovelies, you will once again be able to enjoy such wonders of the world as trucknuts and a squirrel playing a banjo.

Sincerely,

The Management

FOUND!

2008-02-01T09:37:00.000-08:00

Oh my god, they found my wallet. The Franklin Covey store called this morning to say that they found it in the parking lot in front of the building and they now have it tucked safely into their safe. Franklin Covey is next to Wahoo's, where I had lunch. I crawled around in that parking lot for at least 20 minutes. And the Franklin Covey store was the only place I didn't check. Go figure.

Maybe it's just a bait and switch. "We don't actually have your wallet, but would you like to buy this lovely wallet/day planner in hand-tooled leather, featuring the inspirational thought of the day? It will make you a better person."

If it makes me a person who doesn't stupidly drop her wallet in the strip mall parking lot and pays her cable bill on time, I may just bite.

I'm off to retrieve my beloved wallet and ask Chris at Franklin Covey how the hell they got my home phone number. Loss of privacy is a small price to pay for becoming a functioning human again.

Paralyzed

2008-01-31T14:39:00.001-08:00

I'm writing this from the Laughing Goat. Ordinarily, that would be just a super thing. But in this case, it kinda blows.

I'm here because I have no Internet at home. And no phone. And no cable (No! Not NO CABLE!)

This morning, while Rick was nursing a sick Tea (nursing = putting her on the couch to drink orange juice and watch Dora all day) he noticed that we were in a communication vacuum. Everything was off. Yet, he couldn't call because we didn't have a phone. And he couldn't look up the number online to dial Comcast on his cell. Because, well, you know. So I called them from work, and I guess Rick resorted to some kind of Senor Wences-inspired Dora puppet show to keep Tea from losing it.

The surly Comcast dude informed me that somehow we had missed a payment several months back (did I mention how much I love moving 3 times in four months?) I had somehow skipped over that late payment every month while paying our regular bill. So, voila! No mo service. And now we know the dark side of the Comcast Triple Play--complete isolation.

Anyhoo. I was going to pay the bill over the phone. I reached down for my wallet, and...it wasn't there. It was there when I went to lunch. It was there when I paid for lunch. It was there when I rode back with my friends from lunch. I THOUGHT it was there when I sat down. But it was not. I searched and searched my vicinity, the restaurant, even crawled around in the parking lot to see if it fell anywhere. I searched through at least four garbage cans. But no wallet.

To review: I had no money, no credit cards, no driver's license, no Costco card. I was planning to leave early to relieve Rick from sick duty, and when I got on the road I realized that my empty light was on. That drive to Boulder was a nail-biter to say the least. And once I got home I realized that I also had no way to connect back to work. Because see above.

So here I am at the Laughing Goat, drinking a latte that I bought by scrounging through the couch cushions, working as long as they'll have me and NOT relieving Rick from kid duty even for five minutes. I have no money, no gas and limited communications.

Ever read Johnny Got His Gun? I feel like that guy.

Someone just lost the rodent vote

2008-01-30T09:16:00.000-08:00

Soon to be re-branded as Ronco's MISTER SQUIRREL

Please, please give Mike Huckabee his own cooking show. In yet another installment of "You can't make this shit up," the most affable creationist freak I know turned up on the Morning Joe last week before the South Carolina primary and gave the most bizarre rationalization ever why he is The Man of the People in South Carolina.

Apparently, South Carolina is one of those fine places, like West Virginia or Southern Indiana, where squirrels aren't just cute and puffy-tailed--they're good eatin'. Huckabee claimed on the show that he is the candidate of choice for South Carolina because when he gets hungry late at night, he likes himself some squirrel. Not only that, but he devised an ingenious way to cook up our little friends, sort of the inbred toothless version of heating up soup on a hot plate in your dorm room.

And I quote:

"When we were in college we used to take a popcorn popper -- because that was the only thing they would let us have in the dorms -- and fry squirrels in the popcorn popper."

Woo hoo! When's the dinner party, Mike?

Here's the link (because every time I try to embed it I fuck it up):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj3QAzSWVA4

That quote is the first best part. Second best part is Scarborough's retort:

"Sounds good, but I prefer grilling possum on the hood of my Ford Bronco."

Ahahahaha! LOVE.

I have two observations. First, if I were a resident of South Carolina, I'd be a little miffed at Gov. Huckabee for his blanket observation that my peeps and I are all squirrel-chomping yokels. And second, if I may channel Thomas Frank for a moment, if woodland critters are a staple of your diet, perhaps you are voting against your own self interests if you side with the Republicans. (Of course, you may be upper-middle class and just LIKE squirrel meat. Not judging.)

What's the matter with South Carolina?

Nice try, Mike. But I hear Hillary will eat ANYTHING if you dare her.

Marketing the slopes

2008-01-28T09:40:00.000-08:00

Gianni and I went skiing at Breck yesterday (Weather: A. Snow coverage: D+. Wind on top: F-). Or rather, Gianni went to ski school from 9 to 3 and I ditched him to ski on my own for 6 hours. I took advantage of my innate ability to go skiing the day before a resort gets huge heaping dumps of snow. Mostly I cruised around on whatever now hadn't been skiied off or otherwise dissipated since the last storm. It was both a great chance to get away from it all and yet another opportunity to remind myself that I'm getting older.

It's not that I can't ski like I used to. I still can. It's that the names of some of these runs are having an adverse affect on me. I used to look at runs with names like The Burn, Boneyard, and Lower Boneyard and think, oh hell yeah. In my younger days, I could go for The Burn from first chair to sundown. But now I look at The Burn and I think, "OWWwwwwww." And let's face it, as a 38-year-old white mother of two, I just feel like an asshole skiing something called "Psychopath."

The thing is, I have no trouble skiing Horseshoe or Cucumber Bowl, even though those are plenty tough. Maybe they just need a renaming campaign aimed at women sliding down the ramp toward middle age. Instead of "The Burn," call it "You Go Girl!" And rechristen "Boneyard" as, "Hooray, My Knees Still Work!"

Naturally they can't really do that because the slopes would strongly resemble a taping of Oprah. So I'll just have to do my own attitude adjustment and admit that after all these years, I'm still pretty much a psychopath.

Never say never

2008-01-26T11:41:00.000-08:00

That's GOFUCKYOURSELF for the triple word score.

Gianni recently discovered Scrabble. He is enamored and wants to play every night. That's wonderful for two reasons, the most obvious is that it boosts his spelling and vocabulary. But the other is that he has unwittingly brought peace and diplomacy to an area of the Polito family where for 17 years, there has been none.

Long long ago when Rick and I first moved to California, we went on our first weekend getaway. We rented a cute little cottage in Mendocino for next to nothing. We spent the days beachcombing and mountain biking and the nights curled up in front of the fire. One night we attempted to play Scrabble. We failed. Or rather, Rick failed.

We had never played Scrabble together before, and let me tell you it was an eye-opener. I quickly realized that the love of my life was not only a great Scrabble player and a formidable opponent, but also the worst sport I had ever seen in my life. He gloated when he pulled ahead. He swore and sulked when he lost. It was like playing Scrabble with John McEnroe. I finally took the board, dumped the tiles, and swore that I would never engage in Scrabble with him again. And since then it's been a running joke, a sore spot, and common knowledge that it's best for the relationship and mankind that we leave the game box untouched on the shelf.

Since Gianni started his love affair with Scrabble, he's played with me. He's played with Rick. But he'd never played with both of us--until last night. After much deliberation, we decided to think of the children. We established word game detente and Scrabbled together for the first time in nearly two decades.

And it worked. Rick was a good sport. He only said, "you BITCH," once, when I blindsided him with a huge triple-word score. And I could tell he was using every bit of restraint to not jump up on the table and do the cabbage patch when he pulled within three points of me. He's all grown up. He didn't even make a fuss when I crushed him like a grape at the end, which is of course not important to me at all because I'm not competitive in the least. (WOOO!)

We're ushering in a new era of peace, prosperity and Scrabble nights that we hope will last for decades to come. It's amazing what you can put aside for the good of the children.

If you feel disenfranchised, raise your hand

2008-01-20T06:28:00.000-08:00

Tsunami Tuesday is coming. On February 5, Colorado gets to join with approximately 752 other states to help determine who will be our Democratic nominee for the presidency. And given who the choices are, we'll get to play a part in history.

At least, SOME of us will. I won't.

I just found out that I registered to vote a month too late to participate in the Colorado caucus. Because I was too busy feeding my children and reading graphic novels to register in time, I will be sitting at home on Tsunami Tuesday like a college freshman who lost her fake ID. I feel so cheated--I don't get to cast my vote for the candidate of my choice. Or rather, I don't get to show up at the gym in Gianni's school between 9am and 11am and raise my hand. (I really don't understand this crazy caucus shit.) Quel bummer.

That just means that all of you other Democratic Coloradans better represent and hie yourselves to the polls on Feb. 5. One of the beautiful things about being an American, and about registering for your Colorado driver's license before December 5, is that you have that right to vote. Just ask those of us who were too lazy to drag our butts out to the DMV before then. So get out there and make me proud.

Unless you're a Republican. Then stay home.

Dodging the bullet

2008-01-18T05:51:00.000-08:00

God, what a week.

We had layoffs at my company. Lots of 'em, relatively speaking--about 10 percent of the staff. My head is spinning. I've been really fortunate in my career that I've never worked anywhere that had any intense layoffs, at least not while I was there. I always seemed to jump ship long before it sank.

But wow. To sit there, learning in the morning that it's coming, and watch your cube-mates and co-workers march one-by-one into The Room (and then into The Other Room, for grief counseling) is more emotionally wracking than I expected.

I know it has to be done. I know that our current administration and the Fed and the American financial markets have been beating on our economy like a pinata and it's about to burst. I know that our clients are cutting back, so we must do it too. I know that we're being proactive, and one deep cut in the beginning is better than death by 1000 knives later on.

It still sucks.

And let's talk about survivor guilt. Frankly, I am lucky to still be here. I've only got six months' tenure at my job. The writer who started the same day that I did is gone. So are a helluva lot of people who have been there longer than I have. It's a big gold stroke that they kept me. I hope it's a vote of confidence, and I'm not just next up on the chopping block if the shit goes down again. I prefer to see the glass as half full.

The funny thing? It's definitely sad. But I'm in awe of the power of human resilience, and the strong spirits and professionalism of those who had to go. They are amazing and they will be just fine.

Ditto the professionalism of the company and the compassion they showed in executing a hard business decision that affected so many people personally. I saw the head of the company go around to each person who was let go, tears in her eyes, and tell them that they still matter. And mean it. I doubt we'll see the chairman of Citibank do the same thing.

It's like when we had our bikes stolen out of our garage. We came down and they were gone. We calculated that it had to have happened in about 15 minutes' time. They jimmied the garage door, cut the locks, and took any bike of any sort of value (leaving our neighbors' crappy bikes.)
They were pros. As I told Rick, if we were going to get robbed, at least we got robbed by the best.

Getting laid off by the best is definitely no huge consolation. But it beats a complementary copy of What Color is Your Parachute? and a swift ass-kick out the door. Deep down amidst the suckiness, I appreciate that.

Tea's first haircut

2008-01-11T17:18:00.000-08:00

It had to happen some day. I'm not talking about the ceremonial first haircut--the one where your precious little angel sits in a chair that looks like a car, plays with toys, and walks away with a lollipop and a lock of hair tied with a ribbon. I'm referring to that other first haircut, where someone under the age of 8 finds a pair of scissors in a drawer and decides to have a party.

The other day the kids were playing nicely in the basement while Rick and I attempted to remember how to have adult conversation. We were interrupted by Gianni, who came up the stairs holding his spiffy new RC car.

"Can you fix this? It doesn't want to go."

We looked at it. No, it didn't want to go. Mostly because there was a huge chunk of hair wrapped around one of the axles. We had to ask.

"Whose hair is this?"

"It's Tea's."

"How did it get there?"

"She was holding the car up to her head and the wheels were going."

"Why were the wheels running?"

"I don't know." (uh huh)

"How did you get it unstuck?"

"I cut it."

!!!!!!!!!!!

The world stopped turning for a second, we all ran downstairs. Gianni can be such an articulate little person sometimes, you totally forget that he's capable of truly awesome 7-year-old boneheaded judgement.

Thankfully, the damage was minimal. Tea has so much freakin' hair, you can't even tell where she lost some. And we did get Gianni to rethink his answer about the wheels and admit that his finger on the button and some direct pressure may have been involved. (The offending car has been put on tiny toy blocks for a week, out of reach.)

On the bright side, he was just trying to help, and he did free Tea from the clutches of the car. The road to hell, etc. And we're very fortunate it wasn't Tea doing the cutting, or I imagine it would have been waaaaay worse. Instead we have our precious first lock of hair--wrapped around a plastic wheel--and a reminder that we need to hide the scissors.

Those kids. They do the darndest things.

The two-ton telephone

2008-01-08T14:24:00.000-08:00

Dammit, I did it again. My bag overturned in my car and I've lost my cell phone. Yet, I can make calls because I have Bluetooth connectivity in my car. Once again, I have turned my car into the world's largest phone. I guess I'll need to have Rick call me on the way home so I can actually locate the damned thing by the sound of the ring.

Tragic. Next time you're starving to death or being held as a political prisoner, think of my plight.

Doesn't anyone say "Stop the presses" anymore?

2008-01-07T08:51:00.000-08:00

Parade Magazine is about more than Walter Scott's Personality Parade. It's also about publishing interviews with pivotal world figures about their hope for peace....after they get assassinated. The cover of yesterday's issue was an interview with Benazir Bhutto. It's by Gail Sheehy. And as it turns out, it's her last interview. All of those things? Huge. Except....the whole thing was written and went to press before the Dec. 27 shooting.

So Parade is running this juicy interview and the only thing bitter old ex-journalists like me are thinking is: You couldn't have changed the headline on the cover? Or added a preface? You realize you had a great scoop and you've now overshadowed that by looking like complete boneheads.

I guess there are two possible explanations. One, the story went to press and because there was an archaic system or something, they couldn't change anything once it shipped (which in my opinion is totally inexcusable in the digital age, but whatevs.) Or two, the issue was already printed and ready to go before Dec. 27 (likely, since they were probably getting the jump on xmas.) Doing another print run over the holidays would have been pricey and complicated.

Is it worth the money to correct the cover and not appear to be totally not paying attention? Or better to just explain it on the Web, as Parade did immediately after the assassination? Who knows. All I know is that it's journalism. The one thing you're supposed to be is timely and factual. If that's not worth the effort, then hmmm.

I guess it's a good thing no one reads print media.

Cindy Crawford--what a hag

2008-01-06T09:23:00.000-08:00

We took a trip last week to the world's largest model train shop, conveniently located in Denver. It was pretty amazing...for the first half hour. Then I grew weary of looking at what must have been about 7,000 miles of train track and arguing about which is better, G gauge or HO.

Fortunately, this store knows their audience and the parents of their audience. They have a nice little sitting area next to the Thomas train table with mom-sized chairs and copies of gossip mags. I settled in with Star Magazine to read about the Best and Worst Beach Bodies of 2007.

The best bods were the usual suspects: Hayden Panettiere, Jessica Alba, Eva Longoria, and other hot young things whose vocation it is to look like babes on the beach for the paparazzi. But guess who was the worst? Roseanne Barr? Barbara Bush? No. It was Cindy Crawford. And indirectly, it was me.

Why was Cindy Crawford such an affront to the eyes of beachgoers this year? It's not like she was 750 pounds and wearing a G-string. She didn't have a life-sized tattoo of Yosemite Sam across her front section. She had the nerve to be a mom over 25 wearing a bikini. You could see her stretch marks, which apparently causes the editors of Star to throw up inside their mouths a little.

Because, ew! Here's a woman in her FORTIES who has had two kids and still looks pretty awesome. Every curve is where it's supposed to be. The only difference between her and the best bods is a little extra skin on the abdomen. But gosh, that really offended Star Magazine. So much so, that of all the people on the beach this year, she was the WORST. Never mind that I was sitting in a model train store and every single person in there would look several orders of magnitude worse than Cindy Crawford were they on a beach in Mustique.

Seeing that really kicked me in the ass. Or the stomach, as it were. I am 38 years old. I am a mom. I am in pretty good shape. Yet, I have stretch marks. Oh, the humanity. I wish I could have kept the smooth belly of my 20s forever, but a funny thing happened. I carried two gigantic children. That tends to stretch things out a little. I didn't think that was a huge deal. But apparently every time I walk out on the deck of Spruce Pool, I'm tempting the other patrons to gouge their eyes out. According to Star Magazine, am I now relegated to bathing skirts and demure mom cuts? God I hope not. Yesterday I walked by the racks of extremely cute bikinis at Target and thought, can I really not wear that anymore? Really? 'Cause what a shame.

Oh my god, the comments about Cindy's bod. How can you go out like that? Cover up! Get a tummy tuck! Let me tell you something. At one point after Tea was born, I looked into a tummy tuck, to reduce the sheer amount of extra skin I now have there. And you know what? Not only does it cost about $10,000, but it is MAJOR SURGERY. With a fairly unpleasant recovery time. Do I really want to spend ten large for the privilege of sitting on my ass for two months, waiting to heal? Just so I can look 22 from the neck down? NO. I'd rather buy an awesome custom bike, or go to Thailand for a month. I hope Cindy feels the same way.

Context aside, I was inspired by that photo. Here's a woman who has spent her whole life living up to the beauty myth. Now she has done her time and she is being herself, with her family. And she is still beautiful. More beautiful than 99 percent of beachgoers. And infinitely more stunning than the Star Magazine staff, who, on their best day, probably resemble the cast of Fraggle Rock. No tummy tuck will fix that, bitches.

I hear Jessica Alba is pregnant. Jessica, just remember--you can buy a lot of baby clothes for 10 grand, and still have enough left over for a rockin' bikini.

Druggie nymphomaniacs have feelings, too

2007-12-28T11:20:00.000-08:00

I feel bad for Lindsay Lohan. I never thought I'd say that.

Her little douchebag rehab fling is telling the whole world the juicy sexual details of their relationship. And he's flashing pictures, too. Can't a girl enjoy a roll in the hay with a mere mortal substance abuser without courting tabloid revenge? Guess not.

Reason number one million and two not to get busy with anyone you meet in rehab. That plan never works.

Fortunately, in the same column, MSNBC also reports that Martha Stewart showed off her prison art--a clay nativity scene she made while at the Big House--on her Christmas Day TV show. It's like the yin and yang of fabulously tacky celebrity incarceration stories.

I have an alibi

2007-12-27T09:46:00.000-08:00

While you people are watching me, I'm watching you, too. Every once in a while I check SiteMeter to see who has so much free time that they would actually read my blog. The answer? My mom. And a tiny group of fans. I'm huge in New Zealand and Antioch. (Thank you, loyal readers). Every once in awhile, I get someone new, a high school friend who Googled me or someone searching for a discounted Butterscotch Pony.

But today I saw something weird and kinda scary. Yesterday morning, I had a hit from Pakistan. That never happens. My mom never goes to Pakistan. I clicked the entry point to see if this Pakistani fan just had to know my opinion on overpriced Japanese pencils, or roving packs of lesbian teens. Turns out this person clicked onto my blog through my entry on A Perfect Mess. Odd that someone in such a culture would be focusing on the celebration of slovenliness. But the headline on that entry: Vindication is Ours.

Given the events of the past 24 hours? Yikes.

While I'm reasonably sure that my diatribe about neat freaks did not directly influence the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, the timing is uber-creepy. Was it an opposition hater? Or the CIA? Are black helicopters flying over my house right now? In case the Bush administration comes beating down my door to drag me to Gitmo, let me state for the record that I was here the whole time. Working. Reading. Playing with the kids. Blogging about something completely stupid and non-fundamentalist in nature. And Pakistan, don't drag me into your bullshit. I have plenty of bullshit of my own to keep me busy.

Watch out, walls

2007-12-26T21:53:00.000-08:00

A week ago, I ran into my doorway and scraped the shit out of my hand. My knuckles were bleeding and it hurt like hell. But my hand looked totally tuff. I had an obvious injury, but I couldn't go around telling everyone I bumped into my own door. Because that would make me a moron. (ahem) So I decided to tell people I punched a wall.

Hey, guys do it all the time. So much so that ER doctors have a name for this particular outburst of macho--the Boyfriend Break. My husband did it when he was in college and his psycho girlfriend was making him crazy, man. The most well-bred, well-mannered gentleman I know could not resist the wall punch when his kids just would. not. sleep. Which cracks me up because I could sooner see Miss Manners punching a wall than this guy.

I even remember my dad doing it when I was 7. I was not being a morning person and my mom was trying to leave my dad with the horrific task of getting me off to school. He not only punched the wall, but the wall was made of cheap drywall and he punched a hole clean through to the other side. He was pissed, but somewhere deep inside I bet he felt like a total badass for punching a fist-sized hole in our house. And that wall never fucked with him again.

Shockingly, no one believed me when I said I punched a wall. Rick said that was just because they didn't know me well enough. I've still got the scabs on my hand. Maybe I just need a little more embellishment to secure my rep. I could be the only mom at Tea's preschool with LOVE and HATE tattooed across my knuckles. That would be cool.

Parade of fools

2007-12-16T20:46:00.000-08:00

It's Sunday! Do you know what that means? Yes, it is the Lord's day. And I subscribe to a special religion where Sunday is reserved for one activity, and one only--reading Walter Scott's Personality Parade in Parade magazine.

We are completely fascinated by the Personality Parade. How can you not be? It's a collection of the most moronic questions you could ever ask about celebrities. It really makes you think about life. For instance, are there really people out there stupid enough to ask these questions? Or, does Parade think we are stupid enough that they can make this shit up and we'll believe other people are stupid enough to write in? It's a philosophical question for the ages.

I mean really. If you had one question to ask about one celebrity, would it be, "Who does Brian Boitano think are the prospects for America's ice skaters in 2010?" Or would it be, "Was Britney Spears really found in a motel room in Riverside with a stripper and an eight ball?"

Our friend Tony is also fascinated with Personality Parade. One of his goals in life is to get a question in the column. So far, he hasn't been able to come up with anything ridiculous enough to make it in. But I think this year is going to be our year. I can feel it. There are just too many unanswered questions about Bea Arthur's life. The public needs to know.

Tony, chase your dream.

Boulder--a safe space for spinning

2007-12-15T10:22:00.000-08:00

Remember my horrid experience with the type-A spin freaks at the JCC? Here is another example of how Boulder is different than San Francisco--in a good way. This morning I went to spin class at the Boulder YMCA. Apparently the 9:30 class is quite popular--when I got there the sign-up sheet was nearly full. But I did snag a spot and I went upstairs.

I walked into the room and ta da, all the bikes were full. "I signed up," I said. The instructor said, this always happens. There are 18 spots on the sign-up sheet and 20 bikes. Those of you who are good at math have already figured out that should leave 2 extra bikes, even when the sheet is full. There were no extra bikes. Spin class crashers--it was JCC redux.

While I was trying to decide whether to curl up in fetal position in the corner and ride out the bad flashback or resort to public shaming to smoke out the offender, a nice man offered me his bike. He was a holdover from the earlier class, so he said he could pass on this one. In fact, he insisted that I take it.

Wow. Such a change from Dickheads on Wheels in San Francisco, where everyone just stared around the room with blank looks and said, "Who, ME? Lalalala." Not only that, but I like the fact that Boulderites are shifty enough to try to crash spin class, but nice enough not to go through with it in the end. It's like just the right amount of assholishness without completely spilling over into pure evil. Much how I try to live my own life. I must be in the right place.

Boulder doesn't suck. Next time I'm searching for a decent pair of shoes that don't involve Vibram or I run out of wine on Sunday, I'll have to remember that.

Web site of the week

2007-12-06T18:37:00.000-08:00

How Roy Orbison lost 20 pounds in just 10 days

I've been looking for a site that serves this EXACT purpose. I know you have too.

Ulli's Roy Orbison in Cling-film site

http://www.michaelkelly.fsnet.co.uk/karl.htm

Hello, and welcome to my homepage. My name is Ulrich Haarbürste and I like to write stories about Roy Orbison being wrapped up in cling-film. If you have written any stories about Roy being completely wrapped in clingfilm please send them to me and I may put them up on the site. ...

As my friend Joe said, "Who doesn't want to read fan fiction involving Roy Orbison wrapped in cling-film?"

And who hasn't written at least three or four of them? Here's your chance to shine. Ulli is waiting.

Not-so-Safeway

2007-12-05T20:34:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week I made a shopping run to Safeway at 28th and Iris. As I picked out produce and organic snacks, it seemed like any other grocery trip. Ho hum. But then, as I was getting milk, I heard someone say, "Get the FUCK DOWN, and STAY down!" and then heard a struggle.

I looked back into Organic Produce and saw two plainclothes cops wrestling a perp to the ground. And he was resisting arrest, big time. They were trying to subdue him and get the cuffs on. I swear, it was like an episode of COPS. When they finally got him cuffed, one cop went to call for backup and the other one held him there. So here was this agitated guy in cuffs, face down, next to the mixed greens.

What happened? Was this a high-speed pursuit that ended in Safeway? Did he try to rob the store? Was he trying to put a genetically-modified tomato in with the organic ones? Sixteen items in the 15 items or less aisle? Who knows?

In my lifetime I have been in some skank-ass markets. The White Hell Pantry next to the El stop. The 24-hour Safeway in Upper Market, a tweakers' paradise. And of course, the nasty Cala at Haight and Stanyan, where I was always the only customer not shoplifting or trying to buy vodka with food stamps. This store in Boulder? Quite possibly the nicest, cleanest, most well-stocked Safeway I've ever seen.

Random.

How the other half lives

2007-12-02T06:02:00.000-08:00

A very nice family from Gianni's class invited us to ride along in their truck for the Boulder Holiday Parade. We were going to head into Denver for their holiday parade, but how can I deprive my children of the opportunity to ride in a parade? So we stayed local to wave and throw lollipops at people.

I've been feeling a little melancholy in the past week. As much as I love Boulder, it's hard to spend the holiday season in a place where you're new. People are going to parties and seeing friends and loved ones, and you're, well, not. In fact, in my case, you feel like you're traveling in a closed tube between work and home, between software white papers and potty training. It can get you down. So I looked forward to having a holiday-related social outing.

And it starts out fun as promised. We ride downtown in the back of a construction truck filled with hay bales and two other families. Gianni is in heaven. Tea is being a pill, but what else is new. All is hunky-dory until we get to the staging area. It turns out that the Barack Obama contingency is riding behind us in the lineup.

John, our host, turns to everyone and says, "Uh-oh, we've got Democrats behind us," and the rest of the group says, "Oh no!"

Oh no?! OH NO??? Great. Our one holiday outing of the season, with people who seem like they could be friends, and it turns out they're the only four Republicans in Boulder. How did this HAPPEN? How could Rick spend every morning this semester talking to this guy at drop off and not realize that he was the big R? And I know he didn't, because this is my husband who has been known to say, "if I found out someone I knew voted Republican, I would shun them." (He has a flair for the dramatic.)

This is a genuine social conundrum for us. Keep in mind that we are coming from a place where, if we were riding in the back of a truck full of hay, and I said, for example, "Dick Cheney sucks cocks in hell," 99.99 percent of the other passengers would agree with me. Hell, in Boulder, you'd think that at least 97.9 passengers would agree. How in god's name did we end up riding with the other 2.1 percent??? What to do? Should we just smile and throw suckers at people? Or should we jump ship and hope that the Obama float will take us in?

I spent the first 15 minutes of the night worried that I would get stuck debating health care, and the next 15 minutes terrified that someone would bring up the R-word and Gianni would blurt out, "But Dad, you said all Republicans were EVIL!" But it all turned out fine. We had a great time, went out for pizza afterwards, talked about all of the things we had in common, and avoided the subject of 2008 entirely. It was a fine, non-partisan time for all.

We learned a valuable lesson last night. Republicans are people too. But I'm still glad we snuck that Obama sign onto the back of their truck before we left.

Something stinks, and it's not the dog

2007-12-01T06:04:00.000-08:00

The New York Times reports that people are buying up luxury perfume for dogs to prevent their beloved pets from stinkin' up the pet-friendly workplace. One brand, Sexy Beast, retails for $65. This unisex fragrance (Unisex. I'm not kidding) is a “blend of bergamot and vanilla-infused musk combined with natural patchouli, mandarin and nutmeg oils.” Best of all, it's vegan. Because, you know, dogs are big vegans.

So instead of having dog whiff in your cubicle, you have a mixture of essential oils AND dog whiff. Lovely. And I don't know about you, but patchouli? I'd rather have my dog smell like a dog than like some 19-year-old hippie on Phish tour. Also, what if you work in a perfume-free environment? THEN what? It's really not fair if your dog gets to wear perfume but your co-workers don't.

I will out myself as having the stinkiest dog on the planet. I love him, but he reeks. And he takes every opportunity to make himself stink more. Wet leaves, squirrel pee, dried earthworms, you name it, he rolls in it. Still, it would be somewhat jarring if he suddenly started smelling like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

You can smell him from here.

Because it's my mission to keep you from blowing $65 on canine cologne, here is my gift to you--my secret weapon against dog stink.

On a camping trip a few years ago, we stopped off at the beach. Vito, a true beach boy, ran off to dig holes and chase sticks. At one point we lost track of him. Where did he go? Oh, no worries, he's over rubbing against that log. That log with flippers. And whiskers. And rigor mortis.

Yes, Vito had discovered the biggest, stank-ass dead seal he could find and he immersed himself. Every inch of him smelled like dead seal. We faced a night in a tiny tent with The Seal Whisperer. We had forgotten our bottle of Sexy Beast, and pretty much anything else we could use to bathe him or remove the stink. The only thing I had in the car was one of those teeny tiny bottles of Purell that you get at Walgreens for 99 cents. With nothing to lose, we poured whatever was left in the bottle all over Vito.

If this is on the list of ingredients, don't buy it.

And damned if it didn't work. The little bit of Purell eradicated every bit of seal stank. To this day, Vito's beauty routine consists of regular baths and the occasional dab of Purell behind his ear.

So if you're worried that your dog is feeling not-so-fresh, save yourself $64.01 and stock up on Purell. It doesn't come in a holiday bling package. And I can't vouch that it's vegan. But it'll do the trick.

My little pony

2007-11-26T20:46:00.000-08:00

It's fourth quarter, which means, according to everyone at my new job, that I will be working my ass off nonstop for four weeks. I will be chained to my desk and sick of my co-workers. I will eat only vending machine food and burritos from Burrito Kitchen, and I will end up with scurvy or rickets or one of those old fashioned diseases for the overworked and malnourished.

In preparation for my indentured servitude, I'm eating lots of limes and getting my Christmas shopping done early and online. God forbid this be The Year Mom Ruined Christmas. (Again.) I've been poring over the digital shelves at Amazon in search of the perfect gift. I even did a little reconnaissance work at Target yesterday while buying Tea's new big girl car seat. I didn't find any winning gifts, but I did see this:

Words fail.

Butterscotch Pony is here! I've heard that "this incredibly lifelike pony is a very special, once-in-a-lifetime friend." (Or if you're Gianni and Tea, "a special never-in-Mom's-lifetime, over-her-dead-body friend.")

It's life-sized! It eats plush carrots! It's the perfect gift for your kid if you have bought them absolutely fucking everything else in the world to fill the gaping hole in your morally bankrupt lives! It beckons to your children from the endcap at Target!

Oh my god.

Hey, you know what else is life-sized, eats carrots, and responds to your touch? A REAL PONY. If you're actually insane enough to buy your child a three-foot-tall overindulgence, go big or go home. Get the real thing.

I speak from experience because I actually HAD a pony when I was Tea's age. No lie. I did not know this until years later. Apparently, my dad had a friend who had a farm in Bloomfield (Bloomfield=Bloomington without the big-city sophistication.) He had a pony he was trying to unload on someone. My dad thought, hey! I have a three-year-old, you have a pony! It's perfect. That is how I became a proud miniature equestrienne with my own goddamn pony.

I only met the pony once. My dad took me out to see it and it tried to eat me. I'm no plush carrot but I guess I looked pretty tasty. And as suddenly as the pony had come into my life, it went away again.

I actually remember going out to a farm and seeing a pony and almost losing my foot to it. But I had no idea it was MY pony. Years later, in therapy, I couldn't even blame my parents for not getting me a pony. Because they DID. I feel gypped. But I do get to feel all superior because I had my own pony, motherfuckers, so it's not a total loss.

In 20 years, Tea can complain to her therapist that I didn't get her a Butterscotch Pony. Maybe she'll find one on eBay and buy it for herself to compensate. And she'll think, as she gently grooms it and it swishes its synthetic tail in response, that her life is now complete.

Nah.

All I'm sayin' is that if I see any pony-shaped boxes on my doorstep, they're going straight to the Butterscotch Glue Factory. Fur real.

Strangers in a strange land

2007-11-21T07:07:00.000-08:00

Gianni, having a heart at the Museum of Science and Industry

It's just not a family vacation unless you end up in the wrong neighborhood. We decided to take the kids to the Museum of Science and Industry on Monday. Gianni wanted to take the train. We could have opted for the spiffy Metra, the train of choice for North Shore commuters heading to their law firms in the Loop. But for the sake of proximity and old fashioned train fun, we opted for the El. Of course, when we opted for the El, I was thinking that the MSI was just a short jaunt from downtown, right next to Soldier Field (which, incidentally, now looks like a flying saucer landed on it--what is up with that?)

Well, guess what? That's the Field Museum, silly. I mixed them up. The MSI is down in the hinterlands of Hyde Park, aka that quasi-fortress of a neighborhood surrounded by the South Side of Chicago. I asked Rick where we needed to get off the train--he pointed to a green dot far south of our starting point.

"Oh."

"Is that a bad neighborhood?"

"Nooooo."

And it's not, really. It's not one of those Chicago neighborhoods where you arrive and you have about two minutes to take cover before someone divests you of your wallet, your jewelry, and anything more valuable than your dry-cleaning receipt. Still, it's pretty obvious when we get off the train that we are not regulars. We do not blend. We are about 300 percent whiter than anyone for at least 10 blocks in any direction. Actually, make that 450 percent whiter.

And you know what's great? My kids did not care one bit. They chased each other and said hi to the dudes drinking forties around the burning barrel and waited patiently for our bus, which came about 15 minutes later and dropped us in lovely Hyde Park, where the barrels were not on fire. I love that my kids have grown up around so much bizarre shit in their first few years that they don't bat an eye when things are different. It's just another stop on the train for them. I hope they keep that perspective. I don't want them in harm's way, but I would like for them to really see the world and appreciate the diversity, not fear it.

I just remember too many trips when I was young where my mom acted like we'd been dropped into the holding pen of the LA County Jail if we were more then two blocks away from the shopping district of a strange city. And I'm so glad that we are a family of explorers. We see so much more because of it.

Between the train ride and the U-Boat and the giant heart, it was quite a journey. So much so that we took the Metra back to save time. I'm sure Nana appreciates that.

Look Nana! I'm riding the Metra!

News flash: Chicago has changed in 15 years

2007-11-20T16:56:00.000-08:00

I'm in Chicago after a decade away. Given the smashing success of our non-Thanksgiving boogie-board extravaganza in San Diego last year, we decided to once again blow off tradition by having Thanksgiving dinner in Chicago with my best friend from college and her husband and their families. (I guess that sounds: traditional, but not our tradition.) It's also a great opportunity for Rick and I to do the Bataan Museum March with the kids. We're doing museums three and four tomorrow. I can feel my kids getting smarter by the hour.

We're staying in a two-bedroom apartment in Bucktown. We opted to skip the Chicago tourist strip for something further afield. I love neighborhoods--especially funky ones. And when I was in school in Evanston, Bucktown and Wicker Park had just the right funk factor. I remember this area as being block after block of beautiful, if decrepit, homes and flats, bodegas, check-cashing stations, and old-man bars. Fantastic used clothing and furniture. Good cheap Polish food. Some blocks were downright dangerous. Life was good.

Imagine my shock when I arrived here to discover that Bucktown and Wicker Park have changed. Just a little. This is now the kind of neighborhood where there are at least a half dozen places to buy a $500 black dress, but no place to buy toothpaste. There are sports bars. And day spas. That is some fucked-up shit.

This is adorable, but I can't brush my teeth with it.

A few years ago, MTV filmed The Real World Chicago in Wicker Park. While they were finishing the house, disgruntled hipsters picketed it. (I really, really love neighborhoods where people picket and firebomb things they disagree with.) I get the sense that about 90 percent of the people I see walking down Damen Avenue today would not only not protest The Real World house, they probably moved here because they filmed The Real World here. Not that there's anything wrong with that...oh wait, yes there is.

I don't know why I'm surprised that fusion small-plate restaurants have supplanted hot-dog joints in this nabe. After all, 16 years in San Francisco saw the Upper Haight change from crack dealers and gunshots at night into a neighborhood dominated by Google millionaires and i-bankers who can afford $2mil for an family home that a family can actually fit into. It happens. And it's not like I haven't changed too. I was a little bit poorer, more toned and less wrinkly the last time I hit the town in Wicker Park, too. I guess we're even. Still--where do people in Chicago go for a good $50 couch these days? Somewhere, I hope.

Pick up the pace, shorty

2007-11-17T06:16:00.000-08:00

Gianni got his report card yesterday. Overall, the news is good. He is doing well in math and is off the charts in reading. He likes art. He knows what a musical instrument is. He could do with a little more listening and a little less clowning around, but they can cancel that cell they reserved for him at juvie last year.

Here's what's bizarre. G had to take a version of the Presidential Fitness Test that I remember taking as a kid. You know, the one where they judge your fitness and your pecking order on the grade school jock scale by how long you can hang on a bar. As it turns out, G is the first grade grand master of hanging on a bar. He far surpassed the national average. He has a fine future ahead of him as a macaque.

But in the dreaded mile run? Gianni is literally in danger of being left behind. He clocked in at 16 minutes, which according to the charts places him in the bottom half of first graders around the country.

Excuse me, but what country? Kenya? First of all, how many first graders do you know who run a mile? I run about twenty a week and I can't say I've ever seen Gianni's classmates burning up the trail. And I'm okay with that. Kids spaz out in so many other wonderful ways every day that they scarcely need to take up long-distance running. It's safe to say G gets his share of exercise during the day, between scootering, climbing, swimming, and bugging me.

Second of all--16 minutes is not exactly Roger Bannister material, but it's hardly shameful for a seven-year-old. There are plenty of adults who run that pace or slower. In fact, I remember seeing a news clip of Bill Clinton jogging in the 90s, and they mentioned that his pace was about 16 minutes a mile. Granted, that was fat Bill Clinton and I think he was eating a Big Mac at the same time, but still. Jeez. If that pace is good enough for the President, it should be okay for the small takers of the Presidential Fitness Test. Why should we hold my little boy to higher standards than the scores of full-grown fatasses in America?

You must run faster than this man to get to second grade.

Something tells me that with his energy level and raw genetic material, Gianni will get through life at an adequate pace. Maybe better than adequate. So let's allow him to stay off the treadmill for at least a few more years, mkay? That way, he'll have time to work toward his Olympic gold medal in hanging on a bar. I'm looking into hiring a coach.

It's called Halloween--look into it

2007-11-03T22:12:00.000-07:00

I always love to post about Halloween, because it's so damned fun and also because it's always a source for exquisite absurdity in our lives. Who can forget Spider Man on Belvedere Street? Or a bag full of popsicle sticks? Or sitting on our stoop drinking red wine and handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters of the Haight, which included chain smokers, teenage mothers, various homeless crazy people, and about a zillion kids? Not me.

Which is why I'm a bit melancholy this year. Three things make me sad.

1. We got three groups of trick or treaters at our new home. One group included members of our own family. I think the other two were lost. Last year, we had four Costco bags of candy and we ran out at 7:30, forced to turn out the lights and hide from the still approaching throngs of little sugar junkies. I talked to friends about my disappointment and apparently, none of them got trick or treaters either. Who did? Folks on Mapleton Hill, where apparently the rich folks give out full-sized candy bars, Amex Centurion cards and gallon Ziploc bags of coke. They scoff at our bag of chocolate. "Fun size" indeed.

2. They cancelled Halloween in the Castro. Even though I'm 1000 miles away and even though it's been Night of the Drunken Violent Homophobes from Milpitas for the past decade or so, it's still a bummer. I remember going to the Castro when we first moved to the city, back when people were still fun. For the cost of a muni ride and the amount of effort it took to put on black clothing and a pair of cat ears, you could drink oil cans of Fosters and watch streets full of happy revelers loving the shit out of life. One year I went as the missing girl on the side of the milk carton (complete with amazing giant milk carton) and for one night I felt what it must be like to be famous. I was the center of attention and must have had my picture taken about ten million times with a parade of gay men dressed as cows, babies, milk maids, or Judy Garland. We still had the milk carton until we moved in June. If only I'd kept it, I could have relived the experience in Boulder (except without the party, or the gay men, or the open containers).

Little lost girl and big gay cow, circa 1994

3. My own daughter boycotted Halloween. We need to run a DNA test. I was so looking forward to going out with Tea this year. At two and a half she is actually old enough to get fired up about dressing for Halloween and going door-to-door for candy. And for Tea, going door to door and putting on a performance for attention and accolades is hardly a stretch. It's her destiny. But in a bizarre turn of events, by the time I got home from work on Wednesday, she flat out refused to wear any costume and she would not go trick or treating, no matter how much I begged. (And I did beg.) We ended up sitting on the couch watching Blues Clues and waiting for our three visits from trick-or-treaters. L-A-M-E. Rick took the kids to the Munchkin Masquerade on Pearl Street earlier in the evening and we have a lovely commemorative picture of the kids sitting on a bale of hay--Gianni in full Darth Vader regalia, and Tea dressed as....Tea. Oh well.

Pearl Street's own Axis of Evil

Good thing I have a whole year to figure out how to make Halloween 2008 less beat. All I need are a few bags of coke, 100,000 drag queens and a giant milk carton. Piece of cake. Be there or be square.

Everything is more fun when you accessorize

2007-10-29T20:18:00.001-07:00

Gianni, tonight:

"I'm going to do my homework in high heels."

White Girlz in the 'Hood

2007-10-27T16:54:00.000-07:00

Public Enemy played on Thursday night in Boulder. I just had to go, for two reasons. First of all, I have deep love for Public Enemy, they are the hip-hop of my youth. They were old skool bad ass motherfuckers. Like me. Even though the closest I get to the streets is when I pick up a gum wrapper and recycle it.

The other reason I just had to see this is that Public Enemy playing the Boulder Theater, in Boulder, is like PE playing at a Wonder Bread factory. Or Darien, Connecticut in a snowstorm. It's JUST THAT WHITE HERE. I really needed to see if the audience would consist of other old white people like me, or if Boulder would get a sudden infusion of African-Americans for the evening.

So my friend Hollie and I made a plan to go, and Rick had weeks of fun making jokes about Public-Enemy-in-Boulder songs, like Fight the Power (of constipation with Metamucil) and Fuck tha Police (for ticketing my car before I had a chance to feed the meter.) Ah, the hilarity.

What was it like? Very white and thirtysomething. And: fucking amazing. God, that was the best show I've seen in years. They are as good as they have ever been. Ever. To see Public Enemy in a small venue like that...Chuck D was a master. The deejay and the band kicked ass.

Even Flavor Flav, that freakshow, reminded us why anyone would pay attention to him in the first place. And then reminded us of why we would ignore him again, as he went on a long wank about Flavor of Love, his other "projects," and then tried to play all of the instruments onstage. Until he got to the guitar player, who basically said, "Don't touch my instrument, you fucking train wreck" and shut him down. And with that, thank god, the Flavor Flav Filibuster ended and we all got back to shakin' it.

Don't let this man speak. Or touch your musical instruments.

The night fucking rocked. I'm so used to going to shows where everyone stands around at a comfortable distance and sways a little and politely claps and says, "my what a nice and critically acclaimed band this is." On Thursday, I stood next to the stage, bumped fists with Chuck D, nearly went deaf and danced my ass of for two hours nonstop. As it should be.

Beats Dark Star Orchestra recreating Ithaca '77 any day. Which is what you usually get at the Boulder Theater. What a difference a week makes.

Why. WHY??????

2007-10-22T21:12:00.000-07:00

Okay. Someone please explain this one to me. While walking through the parking lot at work last week, I saw the strangest fucking thing. There, on a big SUV, I saw this:

Is it me, or does it seem like a CR-V should perhaps have a smaller pair?

Now, I have seen some stupid shit on cars. I'm from Indiana, for fuck's sake. Lame god/abortion/hippie/redneck bumperstickers. Those suction-cupped stuffed animals. Baby on Board. Calvin peeing on someone's NASCAR number, or Osama Bin Laden. Not personal automobile statements that I would make, but certainly someone's expression.

But I cannot for the life of me figure out what would possess someone to hang a giant nutsack from their trailer hitch. I didn't even know that this accessory existed until last week.

WHAT is motivation? Can someone shed some light on this for me?

There are actually websites devoted to nothing but bumpernuts. (you must click on this link, if only to see the animated squirrel with the big swingin' testicles.) What a learning experience. (For example, I learned that Blue Balls are for MARRIED MEN! Ahahahah! Geddit?)

I cannot decide whether I'm totally appalled by this phenomenon, or if I want to buy them as holiday gifts for everyone I know. I guess you'll find out in December.

UPDATE: Mister Tony Ruffo is enjoying his shiny new set of balls and can't wait to put them on his mini-van. Happy holidays, Tony!

File under: Things you never want to hear ANYONE say to your daughter, especially your son

2007-10-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

"Hey Tea, want to ride the sausage wagon?"

Any excuse to post a photo of the Wienermobile...

It's not how it sounds. I swear.

Up with Purple!

2007-10-16T20:56:00.000-07:00

Hey, you guys are a real baseball team after all!

Rockies win the pennant! Wooo!

Actually, I know next to nothing about the Rockies. I haven't been here long enough for them to be my boys. But I couldn't be happier for them. It almost makes up for the Giants sucking so much this year. Almost.

It's very cool. But you know what's not cool? Deciding which kids get to go out for recess first based on how well they answer questions about the Rockies. A certain disgruntled young man told me that this was how it went down at school today.

I'm sure THESE kids got to go out to recess first.

Excuse me! Way to screw the new kid whose dad hates baseball!

How about next time we ask who won the last five years of the Tour de France? Or who the governor of California is? Or which train you take to get from the Haight to the Zoo?

Play fair, people.

Pot? Kettle? Black?

2007-10-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

From the AP yesterday:

MOSCOW--The Russian government under Vladimir Putin has amassed so much central authority that the power-grab may undermine Moscow's commitment to democracy,Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice said Saturday.

"In any country, if you don't have countervailing institutions, the power of any one president is problematic for democratic development," Rice told reporters after meeting with human-rights activists.

And then she fell into a big pit of irony.

Rick is faster than Tyler Hamilton*

2007-10-15T19:29:00.000-07:00

*When Tyler Hamilton is barely moving.

Rick shared the road with a genuine bike celebrity today. He was riding up Lefthand Canyon today when two guys blazed past him like he was going backwards. Now, Rick is no racer, but he is no slouch, either. He's been passed by racers, but according to him he has never been so totally dusted by two other riders on the road. He was: impressed.

A few minutes later, he saw the guys creeping along up ahead, which would indicate that they were recovering from the ass-kicking interval they just completed. He rode up alongside them and chitchatted about this and that--probably about how much totally faster they were than him (Or probably something more intelligent than that. I'm sure Rick played it cool.)

A few more minutes later, sure enough, one of the guys came racing by Rick. (Oh--for those unfamiliar with Lefthand Canyon? It's uphill. For like 7 miles. Not a wicked steep hill, but a hill. Most people do not sprint up.) And then he slowed down again and Rick caught up and started yakking with him. He thought, wow this guy looks familiar. Does he shop at Whole Foods, too?

It wasn't until the guy was long gone and Rick was on his way back to town that he realized: D'oh. That was Tyler Hamilton. Tour de France stage-claiming, Olympic gold medal winning--and, sadly, at one point, blood doping--Tyler Hamilton. Hope he's clean now, and wonder what he's training for?

For Rick, seeing Tyler Hamilton is way cooler than seeing, say, Justin Timberlake. Or Michael Jordan. Or Lance. Well, especially Lance. He called me right away to tell me that he passed Tyler. TWICE. (and, yeah, got smoked a few times, too, but who's counting?)

I'm so happy for him, and glad that at least one of us had a good day. I, on the other hand, did something completely dumbassed at work. So stupid. So incredibly self-destructive that even Britney Spears would look at it and say, "DUDE. That was really retarded. What were you thinking?"

But everyone makes mistakes. And tomorrow is another day. I'm sure Tyler would back me up on that.

Gore wins! Again!

2007-10-12T05:49:00.000-07:00

If only he'd been our president. Oh, wait! He was!

Give it up for Al Gore, winner of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize! Congratulations, Al. You da man. An Oscar, an Emmy, and one of the world's most prestigious honors in one year. I'm pretty sure that's a first. We salute you from our new energy-efficient house.

Of course this news gives Rick a fat injection of hope. He wants Gore in the race. For months he's been combing Google news alerts for some sign that Gore might step into the fray. Now he's ecstatic. Al, if you run, Rick will personally stash Ralph Nader in the trunk of a car until November 5, 2008. Promise.

Remember when Bush won the the Nobel Peace Prize? Ahahahah. Hahaha.

Al better keep his prize in a guarded safe deposit box or they'll steal that too.

Farewell to the 415

2007-10-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

We got new cell phones this weekend. For me this is the equivalent of being 9 and waking up to a buttload of presents on Christmas morning. We've both been messing with our phones like complete geeks and interrupting our kids and the dog every five minutes to tell them about some exciting new feature (they care. really.)

But this particular phone migration is a tad bittersweet, too. In bravely venturing into a new cellular frontier, we are giving up our 415 area code. 415 has been good to us, and, please, it's one of the cool area codes. I used to read stories in the Styles section of the Times about people who had to move to Seattle or Omaha or Outer Mongolia and clung to their 212 or 917, even in the face of insane rates and roaming charges. And I, like you, thought: Losers. It's a fucking phone. Get over it.

But that's when I thought we'd grow old and die in the 415. Now that we're in Boulder, I sort of get it. Our phones were one of our last ties to our old home. And, yes, a piece of our identities, however lame that is.

There is a flip side, though. We've been here three months and people still have to call us long distance. Our address is still a PO box. But that all changes this week. We've got the new phones, and tomorrow we close on our new house, which will give us an actual physical address. We are no longer itinerant. And we're proud to be 303.

I mean that. I wouldn't be caught dead in 720.

Now THIS is a Fundraiser.

2007-10-07T21:01:00.001-07:00

I remember when I was in school. I had to sell all kinds of crap to raise money. Candles, magazine subscriptions, chocolate bars, cookies, wrapping paper, god, the list goes on. At least twice a year we'd have an all-school or all-band or all-something assembly where some joker from Herff-Jones or wherever would try to fire us up about being pimped out door-to-door to pay for new soccer balls or some such bullshit.

I swore, Scarlett O'Hara-style, with God as my witness, that when I had kids their main responsibility as young salesbots would be to ask me for the biggest check possible. One that would get them out of bugging the neighbors to buy vanilla-scented candles with tigers airbrushed on them. And I'm sticking to it.

But I have been pleasantly surprised by Gianni's school. In fact, at the PTA meeting, the fundraiser stood up and actually said, "Our goal is to never have our kids sell one effin' roll of ugly-ass wrapping paper." (I paraphrase.) And they are also sticking to it.

In fact, tonight I went to probably the coolest school fundraiser I've ever attended. Cooler than a silent auction. Even cooler than an all-school carnival. Tonight we went down to the Boulder Theater to see flipcrash in concert.

What is flipcrash? These guys.

They're a three-man (boy?) band from Casey Middle School, and they rock. Tonight they were raising money for Whittier and Casey. The schools got to keep the door, the profit from shirts and dinner, and I'm guessing at least some of the bar. (Yes. Bar. Grownups welcome.)

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe something like my friend Dave Aronoff's band, The Intestinal Waterslide. Who did a mean cover of "Yuk Mouth" from ABC Saturday Morning TV. As high-school students. (As seen here, watch at your own risk. ) Shockingly, one of those guys was and is a real musician--Jake Smith is an actual talented guitarist with a few acclaimed bands, most recently The Mysteries of Life.

But in 1987, The Intestinal Waterslide was just a group of future infectious disease doctors being complete dorks onstage. And Jake Smith.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. flipcrash? Three Jake Smiths. Except they're, like, TWELVE. They're as good as any high school band I remember seeing. They're better than most ADULTS I know. These guys can not only actually play their instruments, at least one of them is a good--and fearless--singer. They write their own songs. "Yuk Mouth" was not heard once.

They started out slow and sounding a little KFOG and I was worried. even to raise money for my kid's school, I don't want to be put through two hours of Big Head Todd, Junior.

But as the night wore on kicked more and more ass. They ended the night with a cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." The last time I heard that song played live, Kurt Cobain was singing it. And none of these guys were born. D'oh! But they did it justice. Their parents must be proud.

It was a good night for all. My kids didn't have to sell candles. Whittier and Casey raised a bunch of money. And those three guys probably have all the eighth-grade girl action they can handle, and then some. Everyone wins.

Things I Learned in September

2007-10-06T07:58:00.000-07:00

Because this past month has been nothing short of absolutely freaking nuts, I've had very little time to visit. To run down everything that's happened would take up everyone else's blogging bandwidth, and that ain't right. Instead, here is a list of things I have learned in the Big Fucking Opportunity for Growth that was September 2007:

I am not always right. Who knew.
Sometimes even when you are right, it's not worth fighting about.
It would take a lot more than $70,000 for me to totally screw you over.
Other people's standards are not quite so high.
Never buy a house from an uptight bald guy getting a divorce.
It's always worthwhile to contact an attorney.
Even if I have a really, really good case, I still probably won't sue you. Especially over a stinkin' house.
On the other hand, my mother knows a disturbing amount about litigation. I would advise not fucking with her.
As far as real estate goes, we are either brilliant, or complete fools. In ten years, we'll find out which one.
My threshold for living in dilapidated housing is a lot lower than it was a few decades ago.
I can still party like I did when I was 20.
Unfortunately, for the next week, I recover like I'm 40. (And I'm only 38.)
Honesty--still the best policy.
My husband is a children's birthday party-planning SUPERGENIUS.
I need to blog more than twice a month, if only so I can write without using any helping verbs. In other words, I need to help enable myself to show up here more .
I need a vacation. A big one.

May October be filled with lots of home-cooked meals, channel surfing, and sleep.

A few things:

2007-09-24T23:04:00.001-07:00

1. Happy birthday to my one and only son Gianni, who is 7 today. G is brilliant and beautiful--and all of the insane traits that go along with those fabulous ones. Gianni, I love you. Here's to a wonderful night out at Casa Bonita, aka Hell for Parents. At least 75 percent of the respondents to Gianni's birthday party invitation are girls. Coincidence? I think not.

2. I got to see the New Pornographers tonight. I saw them on their last tour. They kicked ass then. And I suppose they kicked ass now. I just remember now the huge difference between seeing a show in a major city and seeing one in a layover city.

BIG CITY: Weekend night, two shows sold out
Boulder: Monday night, tix still available.

BIG CITY: Awesome banter between songs.
Boulder: Let's get this over with.

BIG CITY: Neko Case with flowing red hair, shining lips and sexy black clothing
Boulder: Neko Case in a ski hat, no makeup and looking like she'd rather be home watching Everybody Loves Raymond. In reruns.

It was enough to give me flashbacks of bands playing in Bloomington, Indiana, which had the double pleasure of being a layover city between layover cities. If bands played there, it was generally one song and then they peed on the crowd.

Clearly, in the last 16 years I have been spoiled.

Still, I loved getting out and seeing a band I love, one of two bands I have seen multiple times (the other? The Rolling Stones.) Even though the audience seemed kind of old and slightly pervy (pervading thought: "Neko is preeettttyy" said in the voice of Lenny from Of Mice and Men). The New Pornographers did not disappoint. The first opening band, Awkward Stance, was sweet. The second, Lavender Diamond, did an excellent job of describing life and feelings on their planet, which was clearly not Earth.

The whole night actually took my mind off of the current state of real estate here in Polito land, where we are trying desperately to buy a house and someone is trying desperately not to sell it to us. "Mass Romantic" live cures what ails you. At least until tomorrow.

How Not to Sell a House in Boulder

2007-08-25T06:16:00.000-07:00

We have this huge problem. We have all this money. Really a ton of money. And it is just sitting in the bank. Every once in a while we pull up our account on line to check if it's still there. It is.

I'm sure you feel our pain.

We'd like nothing better than to hand this massive wad of cash over to some nice Boulder resident in exchange for a home for our family of four and (canine) half. You'd think it would be easy. But, in the words of the late John Belushi, nooooooooOOOOoooo. It's harder than we ever thought it would be. It's nearly September and we are still transient. And the way things are going, I'm wondering if we are looking at being extremely well-off renters into the distant future. God I hope not.

We have been watching the Boulder "housing" market for about six months now, seriously looking for two, and I'm here to tell you: it's grim. Yes there is a lot of inventory right now. No, it is not moving at all. FOR A REASON. If I could just for a moment point out a few things to our home-selling friends in Boulder:

1. Your house is not worth that much. It is not worth twice the value of the similar house at the other end of the neighborhood. It is not worth more than the bigger house west of Broadway. Yes it is awfully cute. And we love what you've done with it. But not enough to distance ourselves from any rational thought whatsoever and lose money for the next 10 years. It is, in other words, not All That.

2. A piece of land with a crappy little house on it is: a piece of land. If we were paying for just a lot and a bit more, we would be very excited to take your little house and turn it into something really amazing and big enough to see us into our empty nest years. But apparently that little house is worth about a half million dollars on its own. To realize the potential of the lot, we have to eventually pay more than we would to have a big brand spanking new house a half mile away in Newlands. Gosh, thanks but no thanks.

3. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but after close inspection, it appears that there is nothing holding your house up. Not a foundation, not a beam, not even a toothpick and some Band-aids. Did you know this when you bought it? Do you know it now, while you are trying to sell it to us for a small fortune? If not, well there it is. Let's say, hypothetically, we were willing to buy a house that is caving in on itself. Okay. That's one thing. But add the flaking exposed asbestos, the corroding boiler, the lack of closets, the complete absence of a garage, the termites....you see where I'm going with this.

4. Let's look into the future. It's 2016. We own the house we bought from you. We have a lovely green front lawn. Except it's not ours! It belongs to the city of Boulder, to whom you traded it 9 years ago so you could build this nice big house. Our property ends at our front porch. But we still get to use this nice green front lawn, right? Sure, until the city decides to WIDEN THE STREET up to our doorstep. It's okay though, we'll just set up drive-thru coffee stand on the porch and fuel up the commuters on their way from Longmont. It's a nice life. Except it is never going to happen. Give us all of the land, or don't sell the house.

Sellers, may I suggest that you occasionally read the Wall Street Journal. They've been talking a bit about real estate lately. Real estate on this planet. Not only is it not the year 2000 anymore, but never in recorded history has your house been worth what you think it's worth. I hate to shit in your Cheerios, but it's the truth.

The question I keep coming back to again and again is: do you really think we are idiots? Let me tell you something. We come from quite possibly the most insane real estate market in the country. You are dealing with professionals. When you behave in a way that makes the San Francisco market look sane, that is really saying something. I'm talking about a place where someone bought a house for a $539,000 that SLID OFF ITS FOUNDATION. Right down the hill.

A million-dollar house in Whittier, or the crappiest house in San Francisco? Guess!

Sellers, let's recap. This was a house with structural issues. In a truly pricey and tight market. And it still cost only $539,000. Is the math making sense yet?

If not, I guess we'll just sit tight here in our charming rented dump, where the walls are crumbling and the stove doesn't heat up. But that's not our problem. Thank god.

Note to self: call landlord.

Grrr

2007-07-15T06:27:00.000-07:00

When we lived in San Francisco, we lived two blocks and change from Children's Playground in Golden Gate Park. We had mixed feelings about the old playground--it was said to be 120 years old and looked it. Crucial planks of wood missing from play structures; lots of rust; and a whole lot of old skool playground fun, designed in the days before car seat regulations and personal injury lawsuits.

We had our reservations about the semi-dangerous equipment sometimes, but our kid loved it. He'd slide down the old concrete slides on a piece of dirty cardboard until the cardboard wore through. He'd play for hours in the rusty triangular contraption that we lovingly referred to as the Tetanus Trap. If he got hungry, he'd unsuccessfully beg for a block of bright pink popcorn from the concession stand.

A few years ago, liability concerns finally won out and they tore down the old Children's Playground. All that was left was a large expanse of dirt and the promise of space-age equipment and water features. It would be bitchin'! When it was done...

Let me tell you, I lost count of the number of times we walked past that dormant dirt lot where the playground used to stand. Every time, we saw the same thing--nothingness surrounded by orange fencing, and no workers within a half mile. My daughter grew from baby to toddler, and we saw dirt. My son started and finished kindergarten, and, yep--dirt.

The MacArthur freeway fell down and they built it back in two weeks. Yet the complicated task of putting up swingsets on a flat lot eluded San Francisco Parks and Rec for at least a year and a half.

Yesterday, from my living room in Boulder, I read that Children's Playground has finally re-opened. And we are gone. God damn it. The pictures make it look real nice. The kids are smiling. As my kids would have done if they had actually BUILT THE THING while we were still living there.

What's missing? WE ARE. Fuckers.

I feel a sad tug as I remember all the time I walked by the dirt, thinking about Gianni and Tea growing up at the new playground. It was supposed to be part of their lives, and they missed it.

Still, in a weird way it makes me feel good that my son's memories of playing in Golden Gate Park are filled not with time logged on sproingy playground surface and safety agency-approved equipment, but hours spent tumbling down a steep chute of concrete, or trapped in the confines of the Tetanus Trap. He was part of something. Something kinda dangerous, but we all lived.

And life goes on. We lose a Children's Playground, but we gain Eldorado Canyon. And as dangerous play structures go, the red rocks and rushing water in the Canyon kick the Tetanus Trap's ass any day of the week.