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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
How Not to Sell a House in Boulder
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.
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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Grrr
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.
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.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.
Friday, July 13, 2007
When Lesbians Attack
You'd have to be a moron to believe this story.
Oh! Wait!
I rest my case.
There was a hard-hitting report on Bill O'Reilly the other day about marauding gangs of lesbian girls kidnapping unsuspecting young people and forcing them to do crimes. Wait, let me say that again--teenage lesbian criminal gangs.
Did Russ Meyer become the news director at Fox when I wasn't looking?
Ace reporter Rod Wheeler stated that these gangs, some of them calling themselves the Pink Pistol Packing Group and carrying pistols painted pink (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP), accost girls--and boys too!--and beat them senseless, then take them to their evil lesbian lair to force them into homosexual acts and a life of crime and total gayness. According to Wheeler, there are more than 150 of these gangs in Washington, DC, alone. And in every major city in America, this is a problem.
You know, I think he's on to something! When I lived in San Francisco, I used to see large groups of lesbians together ALL THE TIME. Sometimes they would accost me and demand things. One of them actually said to me, "Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" I was so scared that I ran straight to the cops. If you think that's bad, you should see the gay men. One of them came up to me once and said that HE LIKED MY SHOES. What is it going to take to make our streets safe again?
Imagine how shocked and appalled I was when Wheeler had to "clarify" his story and apologize on his Web site. And the Southern Poverty Law Center contacted police departments in several metro areas to find out if there has indeed been an uptick in lesbian aggression in America's large cities. The overwhelming response: "Huh?" (The SPLC has an excellent report on the whole incident in its entire hilarity, with actual facts and details and stuff, here.)
I knew it couldn't be true. Everyone knows that if a gang of lesbians accosted someone, they would be really easy to catch. They'd still be processing their feelings on the street corner when the cops showed up.
Oh! Wait!
I rest my case.
There was a hard-hitting report on Bill O'Reilly the other day about marauding gangs of lesbian girls kidnapping unsuspecting young people and forcing them to do crimes. Wait, let me say that again--teenage lesbian criminal gangs.
Did Russ Meyer become the news director at Fox when I wasn't looking?
Ace reporter Rod Wheeler stated that these gangs, some of them calling themselves the Pink Pistol Packing Group and carrying pistols painted pink (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP), accost girls--and boys too!--and beat them senseless, then take them to their evil lesbian lair to force them into homosexual acts and a life of crime and total gayness. According to Wheeler, there are more than 150 of these gangs in Washington, DC, alone. And in every major city in America, this is a problem.
You know, I think he's on to something! When I lived in San Francisco, I used to see large groups of lesbians together ALL THE TIME. Sometimes they would accost me and demand things. One of them actually said to me, "Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" I was so scared that I ran straight to the cops. If you think that's bad, you should see the gay men. One of them came up to me once and said that HE LIKED MY SHOES. What is it going to take to make our streets safe again?
Imagine how shocked and appalled I was when Wheeler had to "clarify" his story and apologize on his Web site. And the Southern Poverty Law Center contacted police departments in several metro areas to find out if there has indeed been an uptick in lesbian aggression in America's large cities. The overwhelming response: "Huh?" (The SPLC has an excellent report on the whole incident in its entire hilarity, with actual facts and details and stuff, here.)
I knew it couldn't be true. Everyone knows that if a gang of lesbians accosted someone, they would be really easy to catch. They'd still be processing their feelings on the street corner when the cops showed up.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Mr. Olbermann Speaks for Me
Just because I've been too busy to post, don't think I'm not completely disgusted and outraged with the current round of power abuse by our so-called leader. Keith Olbermann's column here pretty much says it all. Yes, calling for resignation is extreme, but commuting the sentence of someone who broke the law just because you can, well hi, that's extremely creepy.
I have to go to an appointment now. I think I'll drive 120 mph to get there. BECAUSE I CAN.
Is it 2008 yet?
I have to go to an appointment now. I think I'll drive 120 mph to get there. BECAUSE I CAN.
Is it 2008 yet?
Friday, June 22, 2007
Thoughts About Wyoming
I drove across Wyoming the other day. Here is what I noticed:
If you need massive amounts of big explosive fireworks that blow up real good, Wyoming can totally hook you up.
The Little America Hotel has 50-cent ice cream cones, lots of parking, 33-inch TV screens in every room, and a huge outdoor advertising budget.
Even little podunk towns in Wyoming have Starbucks.
I used to go to Wyoming all the time. My college boyfriend grew up there, in Jackson Hole. Jackson Hole is one of the most scenic places in the whole entire world, but I always assumed the rest of Wyoming outside of that small corner by the Tetons and Yellowstone pretty much sucked. I see now that I was mistaken. For my ignorance, I deserve every assumption ever made that everyone from Indiana weighs 350 pounds and loves Nascar.
Oh my god, I have never seen so much majestic beauty in my life. Rolling ranches, green hills, winding rivers, snowcapped peaks in the distance, pastoral farm scenes...it's all amazing. And proof that I've been completely small-minded in the last 16 years thinking that California had a monopoly on the beauty. Sorry, Wyoming. I misjudged your appearance completely. If it weren't for the fact that you produced Dick Cheney and your idea of big-town sophistication is Salt Lake City, I would buy my own little piece of paradise and stay a while. I'll be back. Especially if I need to blow something up.
If you need massive amounts of big explosive fireworks that blow up real good, Wyoming can totally hook you up.
The Little America Hotel has 50-cent ice cream cones, lots of parking, 33-inch TV screens in every room, and a huge outdoor advertising budget.
Even little podunk towns in Wyoming have Starbucks.
I used to go to Wyoming all the time. My college boyfriend grew up there, in Jackson Hole. Jackson Hole is one of the most scenic places in the whole entire world, but I always assumed the rest of Wyoming outside of that small corner by the Tetons and Yellowstone pretty much sucked. I see now that I was mistaken. For my ignorance, I deserve every assumption ever made that everyone from Indiana weighs 350 pounds and loves Nascar.
Oh my god, I have never seen so much majestic beauty in my life. Rolling ranches, green hills, winding rivers, snowcapped peaks in the distance, pastoral farm scenes...it's all amazing. And proof that I've been completely small-minded in the last 16 years thinking that California had a monopoly on the beauty. Sorry, Wyoming. I misjudged your appearance completely. If it weren't for the fact that you produced Dick Cheney and your idea of big-town sophistication is Salt Lake City, I would buy my own little piece of paradise and stay a while. I'll be back. Especially if I need to blow something up.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Oh My God! They Nebulized Kenny!
I am not the first mom to have to give a squirming 2-year-old an asthma treatment. I'm sure I'm not the only one to have to do it on the road, in a small town in Nevada that is not Reno. But I may be the first one to administer the medicine with the help of Cartman and a certain Christmas poo.
Tea started wheezing somewhere outside of Reno, and we stopped at the next town that consisted of more than few gas pumps and a video poker machine (thereby making it the third largest town in Nevada.) The local pizza parlor took pity on us and said they would find us an outlet so we could administer the life-giving Levalbuterol.
We were ready to settle into a booth to give Tea the treatment (an experience not unlike shaving a wolverine) when I saw the solution. For the next 15 minutes, Taylor held the nebulizer while Tea took the treatment while watching me play the South Park Pinball game at the small arcade. It's a rough job, raising kids, but someone has to do it. She giggled every time Cartman shouted "RESPECT MY AUTHORITAY" and shrieked with joy when I hit the giant toilet at the back, releasing Mr Hanky the Christmas Poo and earning us a 3-million-point bonus. I kept on feeding the quarters. Because, you know, it's my duty as a mom to do whatever it takes.
I knew it was time to stop when I shouted "Tea, stop blocking Mommy while she's trying to kill Kenny!" and Taylor gently let me know that we had finished the breathing treatment 25 minutes earlier. I just wanted to be really sure we got it done, okay?
You're safe for now, Kenny. But next time Tea wheezes I'm coming for you.
Tea started wheezing somewhere outside of Reno, and we stopped at the next town that consisted of more than few gas pumps and a video poker machine (thereby making it the third largest town in Nevada.) The local pizza parlor took pity on us and said they would find us an outlet so we could administer the life-giving Levalbuterol.
We were ready to settle into a booth to give Tea the treatment (an experience not unlike shaving a wolverine) when I saw the solution. For the next 15 minutes, Taylor held the nebulizer while Tea took the treatment while watching me play the South Park Pinball game at the small arcade. It's a rough job, raising kids, but someone has to do it. She giggled every time Cartman shouted "RESPECT MY AUTHORITAY" and shrieked with joy when I hit the giant toilet at the back, releasing Mr Hanky the Christmas Poo and earning us a 3-million-point bonus. I kept on feeding the quarters. Because, you know, it's my duty as a mom to do whatever it takes.
I knew it was time to stop when I shouted "Tea, stop blocking Mommy while she's trying to kill Kenny!" and Taylor gently let me know that we had finished the breathing treatment 25 minutes earlier. I just wanted to be really sure we got it done, okay?
You're safe for now, Kenny. But next time Tea wheezes I'm coming for you.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
This Just In: Muni Really Does Suck
Hi. I suck.But lately it's been different. In the past six months or so I've been wondering, is it just me or does Muni suddenly blow goats like it's never blown before? After years of mostly okay service, suddenly we have long waits for trains, bottlenecks where they never existed before, excessively cranky drivers, and inexplicable route changes (if I get on the N Judah, I should end up at the ballpark. That is just the way it is. I don't care if it makes the T and J lines feel left out.) Am I going crazy or is Muni just plain bad these days?
Well, it's official. It's not just me. Muni is truly fucked. The Chronicle says so. There is an excellent story in today's Chron by the sublime Rachel Gordon about how woefully screwed up Muni is. There's no money, there are huge shortages of employees across the board, and the employees Muni does have are reverting to the good old days of punching their time cards in their jammies and going back home to snooze and watch The View. The head of the Muni agency is actually admitting that things are far, far beyond bad and we're not just hallucinating when we read that NextBus sign and it tells us the next train is coming in 37 minutes.
I'm so glad this story came out today. Because Friday was a journey into the ninth circle of transportation hell for the Polito family. We had tickets to the As vs. Giants at Pac Bell Park (fuck you, I'll call it what I want). Game start time was 7:15, so we all rolled out of the house and up to the Cole and Carl stop at 6:20 or so. We saw a train leave the stop going inbound. We could have sprinted and made it, but we thought: oh ho ho, we'll get the next one. It's rush hour and game night, they'll be another train along in a few minutes, right? RIGHT?
Ha ha ha.
NextBus told us that we would be waiting 18 minutes for the next train. Or we could really settle in and get the next train after that....in 38 minutes. We then proceeded to wait the longest 18 minutes I've experienced since I was in heavy childbirth labor. Only this time the kids were on the outside and getting hungry and cranky and not being understanding about the delay. About 25 minutes later, we boarded an overcrowded train with our wild animals and inched our way toward Embarcadero station to change trains, because you know, we really hated that direct line to the ballpark. It really wasn't working for anyone. You're right, Muni, we'd much rather get off and change trains to go the last 3 stops on the J Church. Brilliant.
Anyway. To make a long story slightly less so, we spent the next 25 minutes crawling toward the last stop, where we met with a bottleneck stretching back past Montgomery station and approximately 10,000 angry and already drunk Giants and As fans comparing body paint and getting antsy. We took a cab to the game. The way back? More of the same! Hooray.
We had hoped to get to the ballpark at start time and scoot out early after 90 minutes or so. Instead, we got there at 8:30, when we originally wanted to LEAVE, and left at 10pm to get home close to 11. Why yes, those were our kids looking like satan's assistants on the way home, thanks to sleep deprivation and having to wade through transportation bullshit that would cause even the most forgiving and patient adult to go bugfuck.
So there you have it, Muni sucks. Muni, you suck. I say so, and Rachel Gordon says so. Clean up your act. In 2 weeks, I'll take my leave of you and begin riding the shiny happy low-emissions party buses of Boulder that make you look like a fleet of broken down mule wagons.
Until then, you owe me Giants tickets. Club level, motherfuckers.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
My Life: An Update
In three weeks, I will be picking up my family and possessions and moving them to a place 1000 miles away where we know practically no one.
Unless something changes, we will have no home and no jobs.
My dog will hate me for at least two weeks.
In one week, someone else will own my home.
In two weeks, my husband will no longer be providing us with cheap health insurance.
After June, I will be miles away from any stylist who has my hair color.
I'm just a little freaked out.
Other than that, things are great.
Unless something changes, we will have no home and no jobs.
My dog will hate me for at least two weeks.
In one week, someone else will own my home.
In two weeks, my husband will no longer be providing us with cheap health insurance.
After June, I will be miles away from any stylist who has my hair color.
I'm just a little freaked out.
Other than that, things are great.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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 youTommy 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.
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
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.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Hummer vs. Prius: This Time It's Personal
I am SO gonna kick your ass!
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 16, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Who's Foolin' Who?
No ass-snapping!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?"
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.
Friday, March 23, 2007
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!
"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!
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, March 18, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Tony Blair's Creative Disorder
This guy puts kid art up on his walls. (According to Stephen Frears.)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.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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.
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.
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