Pick up the pace, shorty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's called Halloween--look into it

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

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

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

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

Little lost girl and big gay cow, circa 1994

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

Pearl Street's own Axis of Evil

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

Everything is more fun when you accessorize

Gianni, tonight:

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

White Girlz in the 'Hood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why. WHY??????

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's not how it sounds. I swear.

Up with Purple!

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

Rockies win the pennant! Wooo!

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

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

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

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

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

Play fair, people.

Pot? Kettle? Black?

From the AP yesterday:

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

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

And then she fell into a big pit of irony.

Rick is faster than Tyler Hamilton*

*When Tyler Hamilton is barely moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gore wins! Again!

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

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

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

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

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

Farewell to the 415

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

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

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

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

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

Now THIS is a Fundraiser.

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

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

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

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

What is flipcrash? These guys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I Learned in September

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

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

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

A few things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Not to Sell a House in Boulder

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

I'm sure you feel our pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note to self: call landlord.

Grrr

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

This Just In: Muni Really Does Suck

Hi. I suck.

Bitching about Muni is a San Francisco pastime, but I like to save my commentary for those really special times when it really is the most asstastic way to get around town. I'm talking to you, Muni Driver who closed the doors on me and laughed as you drove away. And you, unforgiving prick transit cops who ticketed my husband for a torn transfer and then threw him and my toddler daughter off the train and onto the cold concrete of Montgomery Station. Oh yes, those things sucked big time. But in general Muni has been good to me, and I don't use up my complaining power, lest I become the little girl who cried 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.

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.

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.