Pride of Ownership: Not So Much

I remember when my parents were selling our house when I was a kid. This was before the days of staging, and the itinerant decorative jars of dried pasta and chili peppers. We were living in the place, we were four people, and we had to keep the place spotless for showings. As you can imagine, for at least two of us this was quite a challenge. We were not really about the equity and curb appeal at ages 9 and 5.

Anyway, at the same time the house was on the market, my sister had a pair of electric snoopy scissors--guaranteed to cut a piece of paper like buttah. Among other things.

One day, my sister got bored. She grabbed her Snoopy scissors and the nearest cuttable object and started shredding. Unfortunately, the nearest shreddable material was the living room curtains. My mom came home from work and discovered that her curtains had fringe, and lots of it.

She had a freak fit, and now that I am getting my house ready for market, I can understand why. I get it because I walked into the kitchen today to see Tea wielding a red marker and scribbling away on the table and window. My heart stopped and I saw our profit from the sale dwindling before my eyes. Tea loves to draw with markers. Woo hoo. Fortunately, Gianni's new favorite activity is washing windows. Really. He is mean with the Windex, so I let him go to town. It was like yin and yang personified, one child destroying property while the other attempted to restore it.

Fortunately, we got to the damage early and G did a lovely job. If you need a window cleaner, I can give you a rec. If you need a red wall, I can also oblige.

Psycho Rant of the Day

Hey! Hotel people!

Let me tell you a little about myself. I'm in my 30s. I'm married. I'm a mom. I have a really really great TV at home.

THAT I NEVER GET TO WATCH.

I am on a trip by myself right now. In and of itself, this is so revolutionary and amazing that it's all I can do not to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling for three days, and then jump on the bed for the remaining day. But that would be humiliating. So I prefer to spend my time doing something slightly more dignified: drinking RILLY good wine and watching TV. The more cheesy or R-rated, the better. There are about a million movies that I need to catch up on and I was looking forward to a nice long visit with Spectravision (or Spanktravision, thank you Tommy Boy, the totally awesome favorite movie that is currently rotting on my TiVo.)

Yet, you seem to be the only hotel ON THE PLANET that doesn't have pay-per-view movies. COME ON. Even those cheapass crackers at Motel 6 have you beat on that. You have a coffee maker. You have nice faux-suede quasi-Western bedspreads. YOU HAVE FRICKIN' WIFI. Can you not afford this little bit of 80s technology for a poor mom who never gets to be captain of the remote?

Speaking of the remote: WHERE THE HELL IS IT? I left my room this morning and it was here. Now, it is not. Surely the housekeeping staff is aware that next to the toilet, the remote is the most important thing in the room. It is my lifeline. To pseudo-crap non-feature-film viewing options, but my lifeline nonetheless.

Yes, I am aware that this is Turn Off the TV Week. My children are strictly observing it. But I am an adult and I DON'T FUCKING CARE. If I can't have feature films, can't I have Celebrity Fit Club? Or The Bachelor: An Officer and a Gentleman? Not without a remote.

HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME? WHERE IS MY REMOTE? WHERE GODDAMNIT?!!!

Oh wait. It's under the bed. Nevermind.

If I hurry, I can still catch the end of The Cosby Show. I'm such a lucky bitch.

Hummer vs. Prius: This Time It's Personal

I am SO gonna kick your ass!

Whenever we travel, we have our own barometer to determine the political makeup and cultural tone of a town. No, not the Internet. That's for cheaters. We like to count the number of Hummers we see versus the number of Priuses on the road. A high Prius-to-Hummer ratio means lots of Barack Obama, shamans, and green cleaning supplies. A high Hummer-to-Prius ratio? God Bless the USA, and try not to shoot your hunting buddy.

Except you'll RUN OUT OF GAS on the way to do it!!

Of course, in San Francisco, you can see about a thousand Priuses a day. I'll see 20 or so taking Gianni to school. I think there are a few living in our hall closet. The only time you see a Hummer is when one is lost on the way to Sacramento.

There used to be a Hummer in our neighborhood, right around the start of Gulf War II. It was a bright yellow Hummer, and it's vivid paint job looked lovely next to the contrast of black Sharpie graffiti that the owner had to regularly sponge off its body. I generally think vandalizing other people's property is a crapass pussy thing to do. But even I had to admire the creativity that came out in the defiling of the Hummer. People really tried, man. Finally, the owner put a sign on the window that said, "I am part of the noble union of carpenters, I use this car for my JOB, it is necessary, please don't trash it." Because yeah, you have to barrel over a lot of steep rock faces to get to your next remodeling job in Noe Valley. Eventually, people got bored, and later, the Hummer just disappeared. Either the guy got tired of wiping off liberal graffiti or he moved on, finding a flock of his peeps in Dallas or Iraq or the local penis enlargement clinic.

When we decided to move, Hummer vs. Prius was something that concerned us very much. Did Boulder have a good ratio? Were we going to be crushed like grapes by the H-Monsters of Colorado? We were relieved to find that the ratio was overwhelmingly in favor of the small but mighty Prius. We might see a few Hummers here and there, but on the whole the city of Boulder is rockin' the Prius. In fact, I think a fair chunk of Boulderites see even Prius drivers as gas guzzling pigdogs as they ride buy on their bikes. I guess that's better than the alternative.

You wanna know what's scary? Florida. For all kinds of reasons, but when we were there a few weeks ago, our grand total was:

Prius: 4

Hummer: 25!!!!!!

TWENTY FIVE Hummers! Can you believe it?? As if Al Gore didn't have enough of a reason to want to see Florida reclaimed by the sea as a result of global warming. I don't think I've ever been in one place where I've seen so many of them. I mean, we see a lot of Priuses, but there's a difference: one car brings us closer to the collapse of civilization due to oil dependence; and one doesn't.

That is just nuts. If I ever see hell, I know it will look a lot like Florida. But I'm sure to Dick Cheney, hell looks a lot like my living room. So it all evens out.

Yep, saw one of these, too.

Big News. Really Big.

I've been a big slacker. But I've been thinking a lot. For weeks, for months, about heavy stuff and big life decisions. We have been through what I can accurately characterize as the shittiest year of my life (buy me a drink sometime and I'll tell you all about it.) A frivolous CPS visit. A son in danger of being thrown out....of kindergarten. A complete implosion of our Bay Area support system. A major screwing-over by the preschool where my daughter was to start in the fall. And finally, just the regular bullshit that goes along with living here, that seems to be piling higher every year.

This is the same San Francisco where I moved when I was 21. Except meaner. And it's not just me and Rick anymore.

It's been a few months of deliberation and intense soul-searching and some really hard-ass decisions. But at the end of June, we will leave the city for a change of pace in Boulder, Colorado.

Why Boulder? Because it's progressive. Because the schools rock. Because it's not as expensive as San Francisco. Because there are jobs that I could do. Because we may actually see our families more than once a year. And because, if you want to do something for yourself or your children, you just fucking do it. You don't have to look for parking or make a reservation or get on a wait list or turn in an application fee. I don't have to live in fear of an upper-middle-class white woman taking me out because I've encroaced on her spin bike at the JCC. All yours, babe.

Because we think we could be happy here and focus on living, not just surviving.

So, the house goes on the market, and this summer we retrace the route that Rick and I drove when we were just pups and barely knew each other, and didn't know what the city held for us. As it turns out, it held a lot of great things. We have had a great life here. But now it is not our life anymore. As my friend Jill, who moved a few years ago, puts it, "We miss San Francisco, but we were already missing it when we lived there." I could go to the Ferry Plaza, the Exploratorium, the beach, Golden Gate Park, art-house films, and dozens of the best restaurants in the world. But I don't. When I spend the money I'll be saving on tuition to come back, maybe I will.

God, it's hard. We're leaving a lot of history, and our friends who've also been toughing it out. But I feel like I've been fighting for the best of the city since I got out of the car 16 years ago, and I am tired of fighting. I'm ready to have time for all of the things I love in life. There are so many more of them than there were long ago. And for that I feel lucky.

There will be more posts as we get deeper into this adventure. And I'll have to change the fuckin' subhead. But we will survive. We already have.

RIP Vanzetti

I am sad to report that Vanzetti, part of the dynamic fish duo of Sacco and Vanzetti, has moved on to that big fish tank in the sky. Cause of death is unclear, but I'm guessing it has something to do with a vacation, and automatic fish feeder and a little orange fish with an overactive piehole.

Vanzetti was a fine fish; a bit of a drama queen and a huge pig, but who isn't? She is survived by her Life Partner, Sacco, who is zipping around the tank in mourning, or who is just fired up because now he gets all the food to himself.

I spill a little bit of aquarium water on the ground for Vanzetti. RIP, my orange homie.

Burial and complicated Circle of Life explanation to the children will be at 4pm today.

Who's Foolin' Who?

No ass-snapping!

Today is practically a holiday in the Polito house. The rule of thumb around here on April Fools' is: unless you see it, don't believe it. A rule that I promptly forgot this morning, being a little hung over and generally stupid lately. I looked incredulous when Rick told me this morning that the babysitter we hired for Gianni and Tea last night had opened a bottle of our red wine and drank half of it. And then later, Gianni told me that when we'd gone to see our friend John this afternoon, G had noticed a huge tattoo of a panther peeking out from his chest. When you get served by a six-year-old on April Fools' Day, it's officially time to get more sleep.

I did get my own zinger in later, a collaboration with Rick, where we successfully convinced John that I was accepting a lucrative job with the Timber Lobby ("They pay really well!"). We had him going for several minutes before we fessed up. Ah yes, the bullshit was flying on Cole Street today.

Some of Rick's greatest April Fools' jokes have been at work, at the various newspapers where he has been a writer. One time, he and his friends printed up a fake insert (huh-huh-huh) for a porn shop called Pandora's Box and slipped into the Sunday papers of all management editors and the publisher. Another time, he simulated a fake news conference via Media Alert phone where a pack of hyenas escaped from their cages at the zoo and were attacking zoo visitors. Another year, he wrote a fake press release announcing the opening of a hunting ranch for exotic game in Sonoma County. Of course, there was the year when he sent an email from the publisher's account saying that there would be mandatory drug testing the following day. Good times.

So when we saw the New York Times Style Magazine's spring design issue this morning, we couldn't help but assume that the In-Store layout was a joke. It had to be. They featured favorite items from Turpan, a high-end housewares store in Manhattan and, I guess, in LA, and maybe in other places where people are rich and gullible. The owner, Greg Turpan, discussed some of his most beloved products. Among them:

"Turpan lets function take a back seat to form with a miniature car from Playsam ($45), a modernist toy company based in Sweden. "Most toys aren't sensitively designed, but this is something that a child will love and a design-conscious adult can appreciate." Pictured: a small half-moon-shaped wooden car with button wheels, that I think I saw for sale at the Waldorf School Rummage Sale last week for 50 cents. It is so not worth 45 bucks.
What's Swedish for, "You've got to be fucking kidding me?"

Also:

Ito-ya pencils from Japan. Not particularly pricey, but does contain the quote, "The experience of a pencil can be the same as that of a Porsche." Um, yeah. When my husband starts buying copious amounts of pencils when he turns 45, I guess it's time for me to worry.

And, the coup de grace:

"Turpan takes as much care selecting cotton dish towels for his store as he does cashmere. His favorites come from Bragard, the venerable French chef's uniform maker. "We like things that cross context," he says. Pictured: towels that look remarkably similar to the ones they used to pass out to us for showers after gym class.

These writeups have to be a joke. Or maybe the joke is that people all hot and bothered about Swedish toy cars and red pencils from this place. I'm reminded of the time that Rick and I went to Niebaum Coppola winery in Napa, owned by THE Coppola, Francis Ford. The wine was great, the grounds were lovely, but the best thing about the whole day was walking into the gift shop and seeing a cup of pens for sale. "FRANCIS' FAVORITE PEN!" the sign said. The pens were perhaps a half-step up from a really decent Uniball roller with a rubber grip. Except that they were 20 bucks each. We could not imagine some joker walking into the gift shop and saying, "This is FRANCIS' FAVORITE PEN. It must be a far superior ball-point pen to all others. Therefore I must have it too. Perhaps I will write the next Apocalypse Now with this flawless writing tool."

Francis' Favorite Pen and the Japanese Red Pencil in a fight: who would win?

Now THIS HAT, I would buy. Cheap at any price.

Coming Soon--Angry Cat, in HD

NBC Universal and News Corp. announced yesterday that they are joining forces to create an Uber Mega Xtra Fancy online video network that will show full episodes from current NBC shows, clips, and even feature films.

"This is a game-changer for Internet video," Chernin said. "We'll have access to just about the entire U.S. Internet audience at launch. And for the first time, consumers will get what they want -- professionally produced video delivered on the sites where they live."

See, silly me, I thought that online video consumers were already getting what they want--jackasses falling off treadmills and Pug Bowling. But I guess what I really want is to watch network television on a teeny tiny screen with shitty sound. How could I not realize this! Thanks, NBC, for showing me the light!

Overheard in Our Car

Gianni: You know what? If you are a kid and you get too close to George Bush, he'll torture you.

Me: Really!

G: Yeah! Levon told me that George Bush tortures little kids.

Me: Who told Levon that?

G: His parents.

Anyone at the White House care to comment?

I'm Speechless.

In my continued effort to do as little as possible, I spent my Saturday afternoon tube-surfing while Gianni and Tea dumped approximately 10,000 Hot Wheels cars on the family room floor. Because there was nothing on, I flipped over to Bravo and caught an episode of something called The Real Housewives of Orange County.

Oh. My. God.

Has anyone else seen this show? It is freakin' terrifying. I need a long Silkwood shower after watching it. I can't even begin to describe it.

I really shouldn't describe it. Because I would just be mean.

Instead, read this blog entry. And this one. They really say it all.

I weep for our nation.

Tony Blair's Creative Disorder

This guy puts kid art up on his walls. (According to Stephen Frears.)

I'm a little tired of this reality, so I checked out early yesterday and went to the movies. I saw The Queen. Short review: everyone is right, great great GREAT movie, go see it. I loved it.

All of the palace insider scenes were brilliant. But what I loved even more than seeing Lilibet giving her dogs walkies and slogging through a river trying to fix her Land Rover was Tony Blair's house.

Yes, that house, No. 10 Downing, or I guess No. 11 Downing in his case because that's the flat that's big enough for him to stow that big family. As an obvious contrast to the buttoned-up, no-tchotchke-out-of-place lifestyle of the royal family, Stephen Frears showed Blair and family living in what would politely be described as "creative disorder," and what might impolitely be described as a minor pigsty. Games and toys littering the floor and the shelves, breakfast dishes undone at the table, clutter on the countertops, you get the idea. If you've ever been to my place, you REALLY get the idea.

Blair has obviously had, ah, a spot of trouble since the time portrayed in the film. Let's just say that being Bush's Butt Boy does not agree with him. But watching the movie definitely gave me a nostalgic tug back to the whirlwind of his first year in office, and the first years of A Certain Other President on this side of the pond. Those were the days. Excuse me, I need to go weep for what has been lost again.

And if I may be sucked back into filmmaking fantasy again for a minute, despite Tony's own seeming departure from reality, I still feel that a PM who has the empty wine bottle from last night still on his kitchen counter in the morning can't be all bad. It gives me hope.

This Whistle Sucks

We were at the Denver Museum of Science and History yesterday and there was an excellent Benjamin Franklin exhibit. I guess we always knew that Ben Franklin was a pretty versatile guy, accomplishing everything from American Independence to making dogs talk (okay, I made that up). But seeing it all laid out in front of us in one installation was pretty amazing. I want to retroactively party with old Ben.

And though the diplomatic wizardry, wacky gadgets, and turbo community-building were all fascinating, the thing that stuck with me the most out of the whole exhibit was a tiny presentation tucked away in the corner. In that corner, a mixed-media Ben, with a cute video and original documents, told the story of the Whistle. It's a story of stupidity, pride, and arrogance. In other words, it's my story.

The gist of it is: when Ben was a young boy, he got a little pocket money for his birthday. He went into town and saw a little boy playing with a whistle. He liked the whistle so much that he offered the kid all of his money for it. He took the whistle home and promptly began annoying his family with it (as it would be in the Polito family as well.) His brothers and sisters ganged up on him and told him a. to shut up, and b. that he was a dumbass because he paid four times as much as he should have for the stupid whistle.

On the surface, it seems like the story of a foolish kid and his whistle. But of course to Ben Franklin--statesman, postmaster, sexual deviant--it was much more. Ben likened "paying too much for a whistle" to giving too much for something that is not worth it, in all walks of life. A miser who lives in poverty so he can hoard his gold is paying too much for his whistle. A wife who lives a life of luxury yet is tormented by her cruel and rich husband is paying to much for her whistle (okay, it was the 1700s. There wasn't much talk about Gloria Steinem's whistle.)

Anyway, it made me think that we really need to look at our proverbial whistle and how much we are shelling out for it. In some ways we are extremely lucky. We own a home in San Francisco, in a terrific neighborhood. Rick has a job that he is good at that is pretty flexible. I have some freelance work. We have two beautiful kids, and we've done the school process here and not only survived, but done well. Life is good. It's a nice whistle, to be sure.

But. The price is high. We are outgrowing our nice little flat. We live on top of one family and squished between two others. Rick commutes up to two hours a day to go to work, more if he has a flat tire. I'm freelance, which means I'm on my own for better or worse, and getting work is like going on a job interview every week. Our son has sensory issues in a place where his senses are bombarded, constantly, 24-7. He is in Occupational Therapy, Speech Therapy, Behavior Modification Therapy, sees a shrink, and he's still not perfect yet. Which wouldn't be a problem except that he's expected to be so he can keep up with the pressure. He's getting so many things fixed that we can't figure out what's not broken.

We don't know where our kids will go to school next year. Really. Our friends have all moved away and the ones that are left are too busy trying to keep their own heads afloat to keep in touch. I wake up every morning guarded, with a deep ache in my stomach, wondering how I'm going to get sucker-punched today. I go to bed every night and lay awake for hours, trying to do the equations over and over in my head, hoping that I can find a way for it to all work out.

Sure, we have the Gay Pride Parade, Golden Gate Park, streetcars, the Ferry Building, the Headlands, an amazing private school, and about nine zillion other things that the rest of the world does not. Yet, it's not doing us a damned bit of good if we're too tired, overworked, stressed, and sad to enjoy one bit of it. I've done more crying and less sleeping this year than at any point in my life. We've always been about the flow in our own lives, and if someone screws with us we just tell them to fuck off and keep going. But when there are kids involved, it all changes. Screw with my children at your peril, and mine. No whistle is worth that.

I love San Francisco. I assumed that we would be here forever, that our kids would truly be born and raised in this city. We have stuck it out longer than anyone we know. But with a little insight from my friend Mr. Franklin and a few last straws, I'm being forced to think. The price might be too high for this whistle. Financially, maybe. But definitely emotionally. We're paying and paying with our time, our energy, and our mental well-being and I for one am almost tapped out.

I dreamed about living here when I was a child growing up somewhere more boring, and it pains me to move my own kids to their own boring corner of the Earth and make San Francisco someplace for them to moon over, too. Or worse, Paradise Lost. But maybe a little space to roam and a little space to just be kids will be a paradise of its own. Hard to say. At any rate it might be time to let go of the dream and face reality.

It's a lot to think about. It's why I've been gone for three weeks. I've been thinking and thinking and trying to put it into words, and yesterday Ben Franklin did it for me. I might listen to him. The man invented swim fins, he must be on to something.

Snow Day

Sugar Bowl--IT'S FINALLY SNOWING. Or as Rick says, "Oh, Fuck."

The snow gods are smiling on the Truckee-Tahoe area today, in a big way. I'm sitting here in our generic ski rental, looking out the El Cheapo Home Depot windows at enough snow to cover Vito Polito at least 1.5 times. We'll be testing that theory later today when we run out of arts and crafts to make.

People who actually know things about weather say that we can expect a few feet of snow in the next few days. All I know is that Rick will be pulling major babysitting duty while Gianni and I hit the powder. I almost forgot what this place looked like with snow after weeks of global warming goodness.

As always, my heart gave a little leap of joy when I looked out the window this morning. Today, I am nine years old again, and not in the usual way involving fart jokes and movies featuring talking dogs. I love California coastal weather but dammit I miss the snow. I miss seeing the flakes start falling before bedtime and waking up to a beautiful blanket of white. I miss snowmen and snowballs and snow bricks and other time-honored snow creations. I miss sitting by the fire drinking hot chocolate after a long day of snow play. These are things I took for granted as a kid, and every time I see snow again it's like a second childhood.

For Rick, it's more like the second circle of hell. Where I see winter wonderland, he sees a natural disaster. In his opinion, why would people voluntarily subject themselves to freezing temperatures and blocked driveways? Winter sports are what people invented because they were trapped and needed something to do to keep from eating each other. I would categorize his attitude as snow-averse, to say the least. Growing up in Tucson will do that to you.

So why are we here, snowed in? Because if I can give my kids one thing, its a sliver of the winter experience I had when I was their age. My son will never, ever, barring freak weather patterns, have a snow day. It's a good bet my daughter never slide down the snowy hills of the Presidio on a giant Hefty bag or a cafeteria tray. They'll never feel the adrenaline rush of riding on a toboggan tied to the back of a moving car (which is a terrible irresponsible thing that I would never do or encourage, oh no no nooo.) A few weeks here and there in Tahoe is the best of winter without the weeks of yucky brown slush and freezing rain and flat skies that follow the few magical days of winter in the Midwest. It's winter: the highlight reel.

And for that, I'll put up with snow chains and shoveling and Mister Buzzkill's tirade against winter. It's worth it. Of course, if we're in here for five days and Rick starts to envision me as a large pork chop, maybe we'll have to reevaluate. Donner, party of five!

Gianni's First Complaint Letter

Rick just forwarded me Gianni's first protest letter. I wish he were rallying to save the wetlands or depose our current administration, but a kid has to follow his heart. So here's what we have:

Dear Toys-R-Us,

My daddy is writing this for me.

I'm sad that you closed the Toys R Us in San Francisco. I think you
will be really disappointed with this news. Because your job is to
make little boys like me happy. And I really liked going to Toys R Us.

I want you to bring the store back. And don't close any more stores.

And I really liked going there and so does my sister, Tea.

From - Gianni


p.s. And Tea.

pps. I'm really not so sad to see you leave our town. There is a much lower incidence of sugar shock and now my kids don't go into name-brand zombification and tantrum default every time we shop for a birthday present. Since you have left, I rarely see a two-year-old sucking on a bottle full of coca-cola and popping M and Ms for lunch. Can't say I miss it!

And this is coming from someone who HAS a sense of cultural literacy and a sense of humor and does not think kids are healthy only on a diet of wooden toys handmade in Germany. But really, Toys R Us sux. Don't miss the sugar or the plastic or the branding. BUT the kids have spoken. Gotta respect that. Luv Mom.

Spin On This

As if there weren't enough reasons to be disappointed in the human race. And as if there weren't enough excuses not to go to the gym. Today, I got to multitask and experience both feelings simultaneously!

I had the single worst gym experience of my life this morning. If you belong to the JCC and you were in the 9am spin class this morning, you know. Maybe even you should be ashamed of yourself. Twice I have been in this spin class and twice I have seen arguments nearly break out into fisticuffs. In case I wasn't clear, let me repeat: IN. SPIN. CLASS.

Last time, a guy took a woman's bike while she was getting water and refused to give it up. This week, they had a sign-up sheet. Yet, though people were signed up for the class, people had sneaked in and taken bikes and refused to give them up, even when they took roll. I was signed up, and the head of group fitness at the JCC found me a bike. I went out to pee and came back and my towel and my keys were thrown on the floor. A woman was tuning up the bike.

I started to ask what was up and before I could say anything the woman got right in my face and started bitching me out. "I GOT HERE EARLY DON'T YOU DARE TAKE MY BIKE BLAH DE BLAH." I'm talking about full-on rage. Because apparently giving folks the finger every time you go through an intersection or screaming about parking spaces is not enough in this city, now it is de rigeur to to get into a hissy fit over stationary. fucking. bicycles.

I gave up my spot and worked out elsewhere. Why? Because it's a spin class, people. It's riding on a bike that doesn't go anywhere. To music. If it is such an earth-shattering absolute that you must spin on your bike in the JCC at 9am, so much so that you will cheat and lie and destroy whoever gets in your way, then guess what? YOU ARE PATHETIC. If that is your one goal for Saturday, then your life officially sucks and I am glad I'm not you.

I am spending most of my non-working hours NOT spinning, mind you, but trying to teach my six-year-old how to measure his responses to everyday situations. We have little deals, medium deals, big deals, and weird deals. A little deal is when someone takes your spot in line or accidentally knocks over your legos. A big deal is when your house catches on fire and a burning piece of the house falls and amputates all of your limbs. A medium deal is somewhere in between. A weird deal is when your dog starts speaking russian and makes you a cheese omelette for dinner. But that's another story.

The point is, my kid is trying his absolute hardest to remember that you don't haul off and slug someone over a little deal, and when you trip and fall you don't scream like your house is on fire. But being in that class this morning, I wonder why I bother. Because I don't see any evidence that anyone else does. The supposedly adult, educated, professional people in that room behaved worse than my two-year-old, let alone Gianni. How is he supposed to learn when there is a whole city full of people who don't get it yet?

Shame on you, people. That is a big deal. Or a weird deal, at the very least.

You're Floating in a Most Peculiar Way

I'm peeing RIGHT NOW

Is there anyone in the country right now who is NOT obsessed with this crazy astronaut story?

It is the greatest, most bizarre thing I've ever read in my life. You can't make this shit up.

I don't know what part is best. The adult diapers? The meticulously planned "mission?" The fact that she and this guy were not actually in any sort of relationship other than as astronaut buddies? I mean, holy crap, it's classic! I cannot wait to see what happens.

No Sudafed for You.

Why did she do it? Look at that booking photo. It is methtastic. That woman is tweaking her brains out. I mean, think about it--she's an astronaut. Intense job. And as my friend informs me, astronauts use amphetamines to deal with "space sickness." So I am just waiting to find out that this woman was cranking full bore on government-issued speed! AWESOME!

(Ok not really. She has a husband and 3 kids. I feel bad for them. But HOLY SHIT WHAT A STORY. If it were me, they'd be obsessed too.)

I also just found out that my friend KNEW HER growing up in the DC area. You better believe I am all over her for details. (Although I'm sure Ms. Lisa Marie Caputo Nowak was a nice girl, they don't let psycho methheads into the Naval Academy. Apparently, they make their own!)

I hope this woman gets the help she needs. And I would appreciate it if she'd send me some of those diapers. I'm driving to Tahoe next week and that 76 station in West Sac is just gross.

Skiers--Don't Hate Me

Better than Indiana, which is not saying much.

I owe the skiers of the Sierra Nevada a big apology. We decided to take the plunge this year and go in on a ski lease share of a house in Tahoe. I love to ski, Gianni loves to ski (Rick hates to ski, but that's a minor technicality), and I hate to admit it but I do miss the snowy winters out here in One Season Land, so we opted for a little more snow in our lives.

And what do we get? A very little more snow. The littlest snow possible. In fact, San Francisco, and pretty much the whole state, is experiencing its fifth driest January since 1850. I can't help but feel that it's because we spent cash money and effort on a winter ski place. If we'd stayed home, it would be snowing buckets right now. So on behalf of all of the Politos, I am sorry. My bad.

How bad is the snow? If you are from California or any state with snow-capped peaks, it's shiteous. If you're from Indiana and grew up skiing there? (That's not a typo--there actually is skiing in Indiana, at resorts with hilarious names like Paoli "Peaks".) The Sierra snow level this year is still the best skiing of your life.

The first day up this season, when the hills were literally brown with lack of snow, I heard people talk about the lousy coverage and the shitty iciness of the slopes. I had the fear.
But when I got out there, sliding on the ice and cruising over the rocks, I realized: Hey! These are truly crappy conditions! Just like home! It was like being thrown into the Briar Patch. Or something.

Anyway, snow or not, we're going up this weekend to bounce off the exposed rocks like human pinballs. Whee. If there are any spring, summer, or fall dreams you'd like me to crush with a large cash expenditure, let me know.

Fish are Anarchists, Not Food

Meet the two newest Politos, Sacco and Vanzetti!

Gianni wanted Italian names for the fishes, and we have always wanted to name a pair of something Sacco and Vanzetti. Everyone wins.

If we get a third fish, we'll have to name it J. Edgar Hoover. It'll be fat and ugly and suspicious of the other fish.

Do they make garter belts in that size?

I Am Old

Imagine him four feet tall. And missing his front teeth.

Like most of the Midwest and probably a good portion of the rest of the country, I watched the Seahawks-Bears nail-biter on Sunday afternoon. I hardly ever watch football; it's just not on my radar. But I grew up in a jock town, with rabid Bears fans for parents. And when you're in a ski lodge and there's a bar full of people who actually care who wins shouting at the TVs dotting the room, it's hard not to feel the love and get caught up in the excitement. Watching the Bears on the tube, it was almost like being home again.

Actually, it was really like being home again. Because there in technicolor, flinging the pigskin up and down the field, was Little Rex Grossman. Actually, now he's Big Rex Grossman Who Can Benchpress Ten Of Me While Eating a Large Pizza. But it wasn't always that way.

See, the Grossmans lived in the same town where I grew up. They were even our next-door neighbors for a while. I remember when Rex was a little guy, about 7 years old, running around with no front teeth and an oversized Indiana football jersey (Anthony Thompson's number, if I'm not mistaken.) I think I even babysat him once with my friend Becky. I remember the three Grossman kids being sweet, well-behaved, confident, and, even at a young age, jocks.

Rex won the state championship with my high school football team in his senior year. He bucked the family tradition of Indiana football (both his father and grandfather played at IU) and opted instead for the University of Florida. My parents got Christmas cards every year with every single Grossman, Grossman-in-law, and baby Grossman decked out head to toe in orange and blue. They were a little, um, enthusiastic. Mom and Dad went to Rex's wedding last year, which served to remind me that I am approximately 150 years old. Which would make me, watching the Bears game in Lake Tahoe, about 157. I'm counting in dog years.

And the amazing thing? It's happened before. With another Former Child. A few years ago, I was watching North Carolina run away yet again with the NCAA basketball title, and noticed that the star of the team was a kid named Sean May. Sean May, as in cute little Sean May, for whom I'm pretty sure I also babysat back when the earth cooled and dinosaurs roamed the earth. His dad is former Indiana superstar Scott May (1976 champs, undefeated! Woo!). I once spent a week in Rome with my friend for my graduation present; we stayed with Scott May, who was a close friend of her dad and Huge In Europe, playing basketball more or less tax-free and living in a phat pad paid for by Banco di Roma outside the city.

When did this HAPPEN?

Both of these brushes with athletic greatness and adventures in babysitting make me think about my own son, who is about the same age Rex Grossman was the last time I saw him. It may seem like a stunning coincidence that I know two current standout athletes from our respective childhoods, but this was Bloomington. It happened. A lot. Athletics ruled the world. Our college basketball team dominated, our high school teams played for blood, and every father wanted his son to be the next great sports hero. The quarterback. Mr. Basketball.

Danny Grossman wanted it so badly that he groomed his son from the youngest possible age for gridiron greatness, hired coaches, built training rooms in the family house. I remember thinking at one point, this kid is either going to the NFL or he's going to get picked up by the cops going 160 miles an hour in his car, doing blow on the dashboard with a tranny hooker. Luckily, he loved football and he was good at it. So that worked out.

But it all reminded me how happy I am that my kids are growing up in San Francisco. In Indiana, people look at Gianni's tall frame and they don't see "kid." They see "power forward," or "outside linebacker." And if he turns out to love art or dance or D and D or video games, or anything but an activity involving a ball, they see him differently; or worse, not at all. Gianni is free to be whatever hero or freak he wants to be, and if he ends up using his size to pummel the opposition, that's fine. But if he doesn't, that is OK too. (In SF, maybe people see him and think, "Tranny Hooker." Who knows?)

He is blessed. And I am old.

I'm Huge in New Zealand

Nelson, New Zealand: It Doesn't Suck

Our friends Kim and Mike are visiting from New Zealand. They are in the exclusive club of people who actually read my blog, so they deserve a shout out. They have their own extremely entertaining blog, here:

kiwibutterflies.blogspot.com

Kim and Mike are not Kiwis by birth. New Zealand is their adopted home. They used to live in San Diego, where Mike taught unruly eighth-graders and Kim was a nurse and yoga teacher (not at the same time, sadly). They had a lovely house overlooking a canyon and a nice life. One day, they looked around, saw George W. Bush's idiot grin for the zillionth time, and said, Fuck this Place. This country is being run by evil morons. We don't want to live here anymore. So they sold the house and the cars and the rest of the stuff and moved. To New Zealand.

Now, they live in a pretty little house on a hilltop overlooking the town of Nelson and the Tasman Sea that cost about 1/4 of what our flat in the city costs. They live in a town of 30,000 people in a country of 4.1 million people. They have a national park practically at their doorstep. They see a lot of sheep and not that many first-run movies. And they fucking love it.

George Bush Doesn't Live Here.

Sure, it's a long-ass way from family and friends. Mike's son and daughter-in-law are having their first baby in a few weeks and they won't be here. That's hard. But life sounds pretty wonderful down there and they are putting down roots. Even though any roots they brought with them were confiscated by the agriculture cops when they came in. (Kim tells me that her Christmas decorations, which were fake with some unfortunately lifelike pinecones, were ransacked at customs. Don't fuck with New Zealand.)

Public Enemy Number One

It's official. December 2008 is Christmas in New Zealand. You heard it here first. We're hoarding frequent-flier miles and Valium starting now. Can we get the kids to watch movies for 24 hours straight? I don't know, but when I look at those gorgeous beaches, I'm willing to give it a shot.

Vindication is Ours

In yo FACE, Mom!

After having to recycle approximately 9 billion books on how to organize your life/car/house/brain/other spaces that you can fill to the brim with crap, finally there's a book that says it's okay to practice, shall we say, "creative disorder."

According to Eric Abramson and David Freedman, my new best friends, restrictive organization may actually hinder creativity by eliminating random behavior and therefore the potential for random breakthroughs of greatness.

Yeah, that's it.

It is nice to have someone acknowledge for once that my random-but-not-so-random piling, er, filing system is actually fine as long as I know where every single thing is (and I do). I am, in my mind, a very organized person, even if that organization doesn't necessarily manifest itself on my desk or in my kitchen pantry. Truly random clutter gives me claustrophobia. And uncleanliness in the form of dirt and grime, well, let's just say ewwwww.

I actually spent time as an employee of The Container Store telling other people how to organize their lives. But it's the classic case of Do As I Say, Not As I Do. Sure, I came out of my stint at The Container Store with a few nice tricks to lighten the piles a little, but when it comes right down to it, neatness for its own sake wastes my time; time that can be spent wrestling with my kids, or throwing the ball for my dog, or volunteering in the community, or, uh, blogging. Given a choice of what to do with my fifteen extra minutes a day that are left over after work and shuttling kids and paying bills and watching YouTube, I know exactly where that time is going.

And in a few years, those kids can really help out around the house. Tea thinks her new Playskool Talking Vacuum is fun; I think it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship.