B is for Bitchout

nice to customers!

The new Bloomingdale's is open! I feel so complete. I actually stumbled on the grand opening yesterday as I wandered aimlessly downtown to find a fancy dress for the many fancy things I must do this fall. I just waltzed right in the only open door, which happened to be in an alley behind about ten delivery trucks belching exhaust onto those of us crafty enough to find the entrance.

My verdict yesterday? Fan-fucking-tabulous. I have been waiting for this moment all of my adult life. Literally! A store less cheesy than Macy's, less frumpy than Nordstrom, and less godawful expensive than Saks or Neiman's. It's not Barneys, but it'll do. There are shoes that I would wear, intersecting with shoes that I can actually afford! Amazing. I spent a few hours poking around as one of the only customers, with a whole staff of hyper-solicitous salesfolks fawning over me. Not bad. I even found a dress I liked, that I decided to come back and get the next day when I had time to try it on.

Bad, bad idea. If you were anywhere near 5th and Mission yesterday, you know exactly what I mean. Where there was no one yesterday, there was a giant line of Bloomie's-lovin' consumers snaking all the way down Mission Street and back into the alley where I sneaked in yesterday. There were security guards posted everywhere and they were not letting anyone in who didn't have some kind of card and who didn't park their ass in that line for a few hours. Apparently people had been there since 6am. What the f---?

UPDATE: Here is a picture from today's Chron.

Once again, I say, ARE YOU PEOPLE FREAKIN' NUTS? The store--it's not going anywhere! They will still have zillions of pairs of black boots next week!

I walked up to the salesdude guarding the Jessie Street door and asked precisely that. He said, they were offering some kind of special promotion where people who opened Bloomingdale's charges yesterday and brought some kind of special card got in "by invitation only." You would not fucking believe this line. It was "by invitation only" the way McDonald's is "by invitation only." I think all of Walnut Creek and most of Milpitas were waiting to get inside. I mean, it's a nice store, but come ON.

Of course, I determined immediately that I was not going to wait in no stinkin' line. I went up to the door guard/sales manager and told him that I had a kid to pick up from school and a busy life and my ass was not going to be spending the next two hours in line so I could walk out with a few perfume samples. I would either be let in to spend my many dollars of cold hard cash on a dress that I had been lovingly sold yesterday, or I would walk up the street to buy another dress, never, ever to return to Bloomingdale's.

Apparently no one (except me) wants to be a dick on the first day. To the guy's credit, he let me in only if I PROMISED to go straight up to the Fancy Dress Section and buy only the dress and nothing else. Well, the joke's on him, I tried on lipstick too! But I did get out in time to pick up Gianni.

So two thumbs up for the new Bloomie's, one for nice stuff and the other for customer service!

Running with Tinkerbell

For reasons that are not entirely clear even to me, I have decided to run a half-marathon in November. I have been more or less retired from racing since my high-school track days. Even then one could argue that I was semi-retired, 'cause it's not like I really tried. Despite possibly having some aptitude for running, I was just getting my jock card punched in sports-crazy southern Indiana, where if you didn't do SOMETHING you weren't worth knowing. Anyway, I digress, because other than running the San Francisco Marathon in 1998 just to prove that I could, and getting up to do the Run to the Far Side every Thanksgiving weekend (there's just something about running next to people dressed up like giant bananas and insects and dogs in suits riding a bus that makes life worthwhile) I mostly just run for my own enjoyment. And so I don't get fat.

But a few weeks ago my friend Atoosa, with whom I run on weekends, asked me if I wanted to do a half-marathon with her and a few of her friends, and I thought, why the hell not? It turns out that Atoosa can only do a race the week that I'm out of town, and she's out of town for the race I can do, so we are not actually running a race together, but now I have got the bug so far up my butt that I want to run a half-marathon that there's no turning back.

I started training a few weeks ago and realized something I'd forgotten in all of my years of leisurely running--training for a race makes you HUNGRY. Like, all the time. I feel like I have a tapeworm. I'm constantly starving and shoving snacks in my piehole all day long. It's just bizarre to polish off a big meal and still be like, mmmm, when's the second course? Excuse me, I need to go eat something now.

Okay, now that I'm back, I'll share my moment of the week, heck, the whole month, that happened while I was training for this blessed event. I was out running the Lyon Street Steps. If you don't live in San Francisco, these are some steep motherfucking steps that climb a big hill next to some gorgeous mansions and kick your ass all the way. When you get to the top, there's a gorgeous view of the waterfront. It's both heavenly and vomitous all at the same time. Anyway, I was coming down the steps, and this woman was running up. She was very California blonde, all tanned and fit and dressed in matching workout clothes and barely breaking a sweat. She was keeping a steady pace and in one hand she was carrying....

Wait for it...

A chihuahua. I shit you not. It was very Paris Hilton. I really thought I'd seen the chihuahua as accessory to just about every occasion, but I was wrong. At least she did carry the thing freehand and didn't have it in a little Adidas bag, or wearing a matching LuluLemon dog track suit or something. If you think about it, it was practically subdued.

All I'm saying is that if I'm on the last mile of the half marathon in November and a kinkajou named BabyLuv passes me, I'm gonna be really pissed.

Look What the Stork (or L. Ron Hubbard) Brought!

It's a big week for celebrity babies and I'm just catching up on news of two little bundles of...something.

First, my brand new copy of Vanity Fair came on Monday. Along with the usual stories about rich old white guys and Eurotrash, there's that Suri Cruise right on the cover! Man, what a cute baby! Who apparently was born bundled with Photoshop! I haven't seen that much airbrushing since Miss December! How many blemishes does a baby need to hide? Now really. If that's our standard, if I'm ever photographed for Vanity Fair I should just put a bag over my head and be done with it. Still, I begrudgingly admit that little Suri is one adorable little muffin. Well done, you Scientology freaks!

And as anyone who reads Perez Hilton knows already, life at the Spears-Federline double-wide just got a little cozier with the birth of little Sutton Pierce Federline (love the name!) on September 12, two days before big brother's first birthday. (All the cool kids are born in mid-September! Maybe Sean Preston and I can have a double B-day celebration! With a pony!)

Anyway. Congratulations to Britney and the Federchimp! Mazel tov! Many happy returns!

Now please stop breeding. Or at least slow the fuck down.

A Quiet Day Is A Good Day

Today is September 11, if you didn't notice. As much as I'd like to say I've been out hugging firefighters and singing "God Bless America" through a megaphone, I've had a nice, mellow day and that is truly a gift that I appreciate with all my soul after months of suckiness. In fact, I'm still anticipating the roundhouse kick to the head that seems to come with every calm moment lately, but hopefully it won't come this time.

Five years ago, I was getting ready to drop then-11-month-old Gianni off with the nanny for the first time. It was the first day I'd ever been apart from him for an entire day and I was, honestly, feeling guilty that I was feeling so happy that I would be away from him. I woke up that morning, and my first thought was: Free at last! I was already planning all of the amazing child-free things I'd be doing that day (Long lunches! Naps! Porn!) when my phone rang. It was my sister, calling at 7:45. I thought: someone died, since that's the only reason anyone is allowed to call me before 8:30. Someone died, all right. A lot of someones. She was calling to make sure that we were not driving on the Golden Gate Bridge, and that someone was not blowing it up right at that moment.

And then it hit me: oh my God, I'm leaving my child with a stranger and the world has gone nuts. I can't do this! Serves me right for being so gleeful at the thought of ditching Gianni to live a life of grown-up leisure.

Then I got it together--I have to do this. We have to keep on truckin'. So I scooped Gianni up, and drove him out for his first day in the care of someone else. He had a blast. I walked around Golden Gate Park, crying and listening to the freakish lack of air traffic noise from above.

I never imagined on that hellish day that I would wake up five years later to a similarly calm and sunny day and actually have that adult free time I'd planned so diligently before. (Okay, no porn, but maybe tomorrow.) My son was off at kindergarten, my daughter with HER new nanny. I was alone, listening to the silence again. And this time, it was good. I hope that the families of those who died on 9/11 are getting their peace too. Times a hundred.

Timing is Everything!

First of all, let's all just take a moment to acknowledge that I suck. I could say that I've been on vacation, I could chalk up my sparse posting as of late to a nasty shitstorm of events in my life that have taken up all my time. And I would be half right in both cases. But the truth is, I just got lazy. My apologies to my one reader. (Hi Honey.)

Anyway, I'm back. And I gotta say, it's amazing how much a few minutes can affect your life in such drastic ways. Two days ago, Gianni had his orientation afternoon at kindergarten. Naturally, we were all planning to go and embarrass him, er, I mean send him off in fine fashion. The plan was for Gianni and Rick to pedal over on the tagalong bike and for me and Tea to meet them at the school. But thanks to some dumb-assed forgetfulness on my part and a booster seat that wasn't quite strapped down to the chair, Tea managed to do a full face-plant on the kitchen floor the minute G and Rick were walking out the front door.

I called Rick on the cell phone and told him that we were going to be a little late, since we had to rush to the doctor and make sure Tea hadn't knocked all of her teeth loose in her grand stunt. Rick came back inside for a second, made sure that we were all fine (bloody, but fine) and then went on the way. They arrived at school with no difficulties, Gianni had a grand time,and I missed the whole thing because I was sitting in a doctor's office for two hours waiting for a consultation that took five minutes to tell me that Tea was just fine. (insert tiny violin and expletive-filled rant about health care here.)

When we saw the local news later, I realized what a blessing a blood-soaked face-plant can be for a family. Because Rick was a few minutes late getting started, he and Gianni were a few minutes late crossing California street. Thus, they barely missed this lunatic, who plowed down 14 pedestrians deliberately and was finally stopped literally blocks from Gianni's new school. While sitting in a waiting room with a grumpy, scraped-up baby is no fun, we all realize that it could have been much much much much worse and thank goodness for life's little delays.

So thanks Tea, and I promise not to be such a scattered dumb ass next time and buckle the booster seat.

The Chron Will Print Anything These Days

The paper proved that already, when last week they published a whiny, entitled "humor" essay by a young "writer" living in her grandmother's Eichler home in Palo Alto. For free. Really the only way to do the story justice is to read it in the voice of a 16-year-old Valley Girl. The walls are, like, green? And the couch is totally orange? And it's, like, really cold? I totally have to wear my fake fur coat all the time! Like, there's not even a jacuzzi tub! Eeuww!

Anyway. It sucked. And I'm not even an Eichler nut.

The paper printed a pageful of letters to the editor regarding the story today, including mine! I'm proud, not just because I got a letter in the paper, but because I got the phrase "takes a dump" into a family newspaper. That is a true accomplishment. Joe Eichler would be proud.

Editor -- Need I even say it: a gift horse that takes a dump on your lawn is still a gift horse. In a time when even non-freelancers can barely afford to make rent on frighteningly small and ugly places in the Bay Area, I cannot even begin to measure how much chutzpah one would have to possess to tell us this tale of "woe." The writer lives in an architecturally significant home that, for better or worse, is historically intact, more because of your grandmother's laziness in maintaining it than anything else. It's rent-free. It's worth a fortune. Cry me a river.

JULIE POLITO

Irwin Allen it Ain't

People are still talking about where they were during the Earthquake. I'm not talking about the 1906 Big One, or even the 1989 Pretty Damned Big One. (In case you're wondering, I was not born yet, and sitting on a couch in Illinois watching the World Series, respectively.) I'm referring to the moderate temblor we experienced just a few days ago. Yes, it was a shaker. Or so I'm told.

For a bunch of supposedly jaded Bay Areans, we sure love to talk about quakes, no matter how tiny. I was walking from the family room into the hallway with Tea for her bedtime. Rick was in the kitchen and he said: "Earthquake."

I said: "Huh?"

Rick was certain that we'd just had an earthquake. The windows rattled. The light fixtures swayed. By the time I looked, there was nothing. But he was certain. He checked the USGS Web site. Nothing reported yet. So I told him to go to the real source of all information.

"Try The Well," I said.

He checked into the San Francisco Earthquake topic on The Well and, before the USGS had a chance to check their seismographs, there were already 20 posts about the quake. Felt it in Bernal Heights! Didn't feel it in the East Bay! I didn't feel it, but I'm on vacation in Europe (thanks for sharing.) People were beginning to go through the stages of Earthquake Processing on The Well. Which are:

1. Report whether you did/didn't feel the quake, even if you don't live in the area. No matter how inane or uninteresting your observations. Please share.

2. Bring up your Bay Area Cred with regards to Earthquakery. I was born here! My grandparents were born here! And the old standby, I was here for Loma Prieta! I was standing on the San Andreas Fault! I am OLD SCHOOL.

3. Segue into how you scoff at people who freak and jump into doorways for anything less than a 6.0 shaker. Ha ha, you cowardly rubes! Look how casual I am.

Now, I have missed pretty much every quake we've had here for the past two years. And by "missed," I mean slept through, mistook for a truck driving by, or otherwise didn't catch because I was too busy gazing at my own thumb or something. But each time I hear the newscasters catching up or see that red square on the USGS map, I bow down in deference to the mighty earth, knowing that, while this time we were safe, it's just a difference of a few Richter points and 30 seconds between standing on solid ground and finding ourselves under the weight of our house and worldly possessions. I cross my fingers and thank some higher power that I still have a doorway to stand under and that my plaster ceiling is intact. May it continue to be so indefinitely.

By the way--4.4, centered near Glen Ellen in Sonoma County. And we're fine, mom.

Fuck Cancer. Again.

My friend Linda Dyer died tonight. She fought breast cancer hard for way too many years, and I think more than anyone expected. She went through jobs, health insurance, many apartments, many really crappy treatments, and a whole lot of exhaustion. And through it all, she was luminous. High-spirited. Beautiful. A real gem of a human being.

I was not on vigil with Linda in her final days. In fact, I have not seen her since she started to go downhill in the last few months. Not because I didn't want to; just that she was busy, I was busy, and we always seemed to find each other when we needed to. When I think about time spent with Linda, I think about her being a fun and caring babysitter to my son until she lacked the energy to do it anymore. I think about helping her move into her in-law apartment down the street, just as she was starting to fight her disease, none of us really knowing where it would take her.

I think of running into her at Zazie, her coming from a chemo treatment and me in my 11th week of pregnancy with Tea. She was one of the first people I told, and we had breakfast together that day, both of us eating pancakes and fighting nausea for, sadly, entirely different reasons. I think about her joining our very earnest writing group and wowing us with her effective and spare prose poems. She was a writer for the sake of writing and I always appreciated that about Linda. It doesn't always work out that way for a lot of us and she kept it real for me.

They tell me she was not in pain when she died. She was at peace. She was surrounded by many friends in real life and many, many virtual friends in spirit. Me included.

I miss you already, Lin. I knew this day would come, but that doesn't make it any easier. Peace and love.

More Fun with MyHeritage.com

MyHeritage.com--it's spreading like a virus, I tell you. My friend Kristen tells me that she tried it with a photo of her baby daughter Kate, and got...

Louis Pasteur!

I tried to tell Kristen that it is an auspicious honor in our society to resemble the father of bacteriology. She is not buying it.

You know, Louis Pasteur tried it with his daughter and she looked just like Christina Ricci. Who knew?

Try and Put this Book Down...

...you won't be able to do it. It's impossible. Try, the debut novel from Lily Burana, has that all-too-rare combination of beautiful, delicious, writing and an actual plot. She perfectly captures Wyoming, rodeo culture, cowboys, and the tentative, aching first days of true luv. I stayed up until 1am last night reading it--my ass is dragging this morning and it's all your fault, Lily.

I'm not just blowing sunshine on this book because Lily is my pal and a brilliant writer. It's a really terrific read. I am a tough customer and I am really digging it. I wish I could churn out a novel like this. But does anyone really want to read a 350-page tome detailing the wacky misadventures of a San Francisco mom and her neurotic dog? Apparently, yes.

Oh well. I need to find a new hook. Anyway, read Try, this year's perfect beach book and then some.

Joss Whedon Rocks



If you haven't seen footage of Joss Whedon giving a speech at Equality Now's awards banquet, it's pretty much the best speech I've seen, ever. This speech is the one thing that made me feel great in an otherwise crap week. Not only is it brilliant, but to my trained eye, Joss looks like he's ad-libbing the thing. I am in awe.

For the uninitiated, Joss Whedon is the creator of some really kickass entertainment, including Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Serenity, Firefly, Angel, and other great stuff. His shows are filled with wit, emotion, excitement, provocative themes, and strong characters, both female AND male.

The dozens of misogynistic fuckheads working in media and entertainment right now could take a page or twenty from his book. Anyway, great, great, speech, Joss. Please marry me, or be my cool boss, or be my best friend, or something.

Craigslist, Hoosier Style

The all-knowing, all-purpose Craigslist now has an outpost in my hometown of Bloomington, Indiana. This cracks me up for so many reasons. For a week, my husband, who assumes that every resident of Indiana hunts squirrels and thinks Larry the Cable Guy is a laff riot, has been forwarding me Missed Connections and Rants and Raves from the Bloomington site.

The thought of a "missed connection" in a town as claustrophobic as Bloomington is to laugh. From my experience, a MC on Craiglist Bloomington would look something like this:

Tsk, Tsk, Tsk
Reply to: pers-177698478@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-02, 5:45PM EST
Julia Lynn McCullough, of the brown house on Winslow Road, you walked past me at the IU game on Saturday afternoon. Don't think I didn't smell that cigarette smoke in your hair and on your jacket, young lady. I really don't think you should be hanging out with that Andrews girl--she is such a bad influence. I think she is on drugs, are you on drugs too? I will be calling your parents tonight. They are such nice people and I really I have no choice, I'm only doing it because I care about you and them and I'm concerned. By the way, why did you break up with that nice Joe Smith? He is so handsome and such a good athlete and you know, his dad makes a lot of money. You could do a lot worse, dear.

(Note that Joe Smith is a. a flaming homosexual, and/or b. deals coke to grade-school kids)

It's not that bad. But there are some good ones. Some of my favorites:

need a threesome baaad ;) - mw4w - 22

---

Reply to: pers-177798478@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-02, 5:45PM EST


hi! my bf and i are looking for single female to have a threesome w/. his birthday is next week and i want to surprise him!!! pref. an asian girl but will consider other types as long as u r hot!! LOL. this is a one time thing i'm ONLY doing this for his bday!!! -kim

Hilarious because first of all, despite the world-class university, Bloomington is a really. small. town. My dad probably bought bagels from these people last week. And second, they actually posted a PICTURE.

Who posts a picture for a threesome ad on Craigslist? (Although, hey, they're cute! I'd do 'em.)

Gotta love this one, too:

Where can a nice looking guy go to get a good bj in this town?

---

Reply to: pers-179922208@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-09, 12:02AM EST


Where's the best public place to get a good blow job in this town? I don't care if it's from a man or a woman.

Depends on what you are looking to gain from the experience, sir! If you're a sucker for Hoosier tradition, try the Well House, or the center line at Assembly Hall. There's nothing like those red banners waving to enhance a good BJ. If you want maximum exposure, try the Courthouse Square on a weekday! And if you want to freak the shit out of some proper Bloomington matrons, a table at Peterson's bakery at noon. Tell 'em I sent you. Happy hunting!

Another gem:

I hate this fucking town

---

Reply to: pers-177786162@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-02, 4:53PM EST


I hate the fucking immature girls (and they are GIRLS, not women) in this town who care only about looks and how much shit their parents will buy them.

I hate the idiot east coasters who walk around this campus like they own the place because they come from money.

I hate people from Indianapolis. First of all, everyone within an hour of the damn place claims to be from "the city" when they're from a suburb. Second, they think it's a real city. Go to New York, Chicago, hell, even Boston or Miami. Those are real cities. They have sports teams that don't consistently choke too.

I hate the illegals and foreign exchange students who choose to live here but refuse to speak English.

I hate the rednecks here who also barely speak English.

I hate the Goddamn university bureaucracy that shoves diversity down our throats just to make themselves feel good.

I hate the fucking professors who don't actually teach anything but still walk around with an unwarranted sense of accomplishment.

All in all I hate this fucking town. If I didn't need a degree (which I now know doesn't prove you know jack shit) to get a job I would never spend a minute in this town and after I'm gone next year I will never come back. Nor will IU ever get a cent of my money. Fuck this place.

Can't really argue with that one.

And finally, the quintessential Bloomington post:

The new big building by Dicks at the Mall

---

Reply to: pers-180176922@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-09, 9:13PM EST


Does anyone have any idea what the big building near Dicks Sporting Goods is going to be over at the mall? There is no signage yet, and I am just really curious! Thanks.

Totally loving that there is a place actually referred to as "Dicks at the Mall." Huh-huh. Uh-heh-heh-heh. (Let's pretend they didn't clarify that it's a sporting goods shop.)

Followed by the quintessential Bloomington response:

re:The new big building by Dicks at the Mall

---

Reply to: pers-180184929@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-09, 9:41PM EST


Not sure but hopefully it will be a strip club.

A perfect complement to Dicks at the Mall. Finally they're putting some useful stuff in there. Beats Chick-fil-A any day.

Damn You, Daniel Radosh

I love Daniel Radosh's blog. It's everything a blog should be--a great mix of personal narrative, opinion on hot topics, and hilarious ridiculousness (like his June 14 entry--Richard Scarry meets Samuel L. Jackson. If you have kids under age 6, this is the funniest motherfucking post you've ever seen.) In short, it's what I try to do with my blog, except he does it so, so much better.

Radosh is responsible for my latest Internet time-suck obsession. MyHeritage.com lets you upload your photos and their face recognition software will find your closest celebrity likeness. By "closest," I mean "barely related in any way whatsoever." Hey, you wear glasses! Benjamin Franklin wears glasses! You're practically twins!

Not since LinkedIn has there been such a wonderful Web time-waster. Of course, I had to do the whole family. First, Rick:

And his celebrity doppelganger:

I think I speak for all of us when I say: WHO? (sorry Gheorghie.)

I prefer our own self-selected celebrity likeness, chosen long ago:

Am I right or am I right? Then there's me:

Bad hair day, just woke up, I'm so much cuter in person, etc. and so on.

My celebrity twin?










Uhhhh.
Granted, this is probably the most flattering photo of Martina Navratilova ever taken. Still, damning with faint praise. That's like saying, "You look like Janet Reno at her hottest."

How about the kids?


Gianni:
A nice coincidence, since we just finished the first Harry Potter book and movie.












Finally, Tea:

Oh dear.











Mommy's little sex kitten. I get Martina Navratilova, and my 14-month-old daughter gets the sexiest woman in history. WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

I tried to do Vito, but there were no matches. C'mon, MyHeritage, you can come up with some of the most random matches ever, but you can't find a lookalike for my dog? You're slacking.


Personally, I think he's a dead ringer for Al Pacino.

It's Called Spellcheck--Look Into It

In the best news I've heard since, well, ever, it turns out my heart will go on...and on and on. My doctor called yesterday. Apparently, the whole plaqued-up heart thing was just a big mistake! They started to wonder when my carotid ultrasound came back showing the most perfect, flawless carotid arteries to ever grace a sonogram. Apparently my carotids are the Brangelina of the cardiovascular world.

Anyway, my cholesterol level and my totally excellent blood vessels prompted my doc and her associates to check out that original aortal ultrasound. And guess what? The whole diagnosis stemmed from a TYPO on the initial report of the reading. I don't think "Oops" begins to cover it in this case. Not to mention, I'm not sure how one typo could turn a diagnosis from "You're healthy as a horse" into "Dick Cheney called and he wants his heart back." But I'm no doctor! (For one thing, I can spell and write legibly.)

The important thing is: I'm healthy. Super healthy. Always was, and hopefully will be for a long time. You're not going to get rid of me that easily. I"m going out for a chicken-fried steak to celebrate.

JetBlue, You're My Hero

JetBlue Airlines proves once again that they rule. In response to my email to them, in which I said, "Flight 93--You might want to change that number, morons," I got the following email this morning:

Dear Ms. Polito,

Thank you for your email regarding JetBlue's flight numbers. We apologize for the uneasy feelingyou experienced when you booked your upcoming flight and discovered that it was numbered 93. We have passed along your suggestion that we eliminate this flight number to our Leadership Team for consideration.

If you would feel more comfortable changing to another flight, JetBlue does have two direct flights from JFK to Oakland which depart soon after flight #93. Please give us a call at 1-800-JETBLUE (538-2583), or visit our website and click the "manage your flights" button if you would like to make a change.

We thank you for choosing JetBlue and look forward to the opportunity to serve you.

Sincerely,

Sonja
Customer Commitment Crew
JetBlue Airways
Crewmember 25784


A speedy response, giving more or less the right answer. Seeing as how if I got home any later on Tuesday I would be buried under a pile of my own guilt, I'm sticking with Flight 93. But here's hoping for long-term change. Besides, if you address the bad juju head on, you eliminate the possibility of bad luck. Or so I say. Now I'm off to rub my rabbit's foot and knock three times on my wooden desk. Not that I'm superstitious or anything. Not me.

Be Careful Out There

I was devastated to learn that an acquaintance from an online bike forum was killed Sunday by a motorist, during the first weekend of a cross-country ride.

It was seriously a few days ago that he was saying goodbye, off to do his dream ride on his recumbent. And now he's gone. I just can't believe it.

I did not know Phil well, but I did know his rides, his stories, and his amazing devotion to his teenage son. He is the second person within a year I've known who has died on his bike. I really hope he's the last. There are enough assholes in the world, we can't afford to lose any more good guys.

When we all go out riding, it's getting harder to take for granted that we'll all come back in one piece. Share the road, people, share the road.

Here's to Phil, who took chances and lived his life, up until the very end. Peace.

Bicyclist dies in fatal collision near Davenport

Hello? Jet Blue? Is This Thing On?

Let's say you're me. You are booking a round-trip flight on Jet Blue to and from the NYC tri-state area for the first all-girl pajama party getaway you've had since, ever. We're talking serious party! Wine! Beach! No sign of Nick Jr! Dogs and cats living together! You get the idea.

Still, five days away from the family. Flying across country when we hate flying. To New York, no less, where we know, we know in our rational brain planes fly back and forth every day without incident. Yet, 5 years ago, a little something happened to a plane bound from NY to SF. In fact, a very nice guy from the 'hood named Mark Bingham was on board. Anyway. Rational Brain has a grip, but Lizard Brain thinks about it, especially when already feeling guilty already for ditching the kids with dad for hedonistic selfish purposes. Damn you, Lizard Brain.

But--Rational Brain gets a grip in the end and books the flight. I am bound for NY and back in late August. Times and dates: check! Enter credit card number for nice people at JetBlue: check! Pick a nice comfy window seat: checkaroonie. Confirmation! Ms. Polito, you are confirmed both ways: arriving JFK on Thursday, returning Tuesday to OAK on...wait for it...

FLIGHT 93

Are you fucking kidding me? Hey JetBlue, been to the movies lately? Watched the news since 9/11/2001? Believe even the tiniest bit in superstition? I mean, I believe the only the tiniest bit in superstition and more than a tiny bit in karma and out of the infinite bazillions of numbers you can assign to a cross-country flight originating in NY, I would not choose, oh, ANY ONE BUT THAT ONE. Please to be changing that number.

It's a sign. I'm a delinquent mom. But in August, I'll be a delinquent mom with a tan and a new outfit from Barney's.

Bad Boy Bad Boy, Whatcha Gonna Do?

Gianni had his first brush with The Man today. Rick and G were riding to school on the tagalong bike. They were cruising along the streets of San Francisco when they heard behind them: BEuwwwwUP! The unmistakable sound of the police siren.

Rick's first thought, aside from the instinctive "where do I hide my weed?" (ha ha, just kidding, mom) was that he was riding too far into traffic. Or, that the cop just wanted to give him shit because he was on a bike and, you know, cops do that sort of thing sometimes.

But, the cop came up to Gianni and said, and I paraphrase: You were dragging your feet on the ground instead of pedaling. And that, young man, is not safe. He did not issue a ticket or lock up our young blond perp in the clink. But Officer Friendly gave G a stern warning and put the fear of God into him.

Rick told me that Gianni got pulled over, and I thought he was totally kidding! But it happened! Frankly, I think it's good for him to get a little scare--scoff at Mom and Dad if you will, but are you gonna fuck with the Five-O?

Our son, Down by Law, fingered by the cops at age 5. I hope we're still laughing in 20 years, and not reminiscing about Gianni's first pinch on our way to Visiting Day at San Quentin.

Old at Heart

Update on the ongoing bizarre saga of my crusty old blood vessels: today I had an ultrasound of my carotid arteries. It is weird indeed to go under the wand for something other than pregnancy--no one gasps with excitement when your arteries appear onscreen.

My Carotid Artery--A Dramatization

For those who are uninitiated to my weird luck, an ultrasound tech scanning for an unrelated condition a few months back noticed that I had calcification of my aorta. This is common in people who a. have high blood pressure and cholesterol readings and b. are old. I am neither.

Still, despite my rock-bottom cholesterol and BP, they thought it was best to be safe and brought me back in to look at my carotids. Apparently, with the carotids so close to the surface of the skin, it's really easy to see if they're junked up at all. And if they are, that means there's probably something to this whole atherosclerosis thing. If not, whatever is hanging out in my aorta is just a fluke, or a misdiagnosis. Or something.

Anyway, today the nice people at UCSF Mount Zion checked out my circulatory system up close and personal. It took an hour of poking things into my neck and clicking keys. I was getting fidgety, but the ultrasound tech told me that I was the easiest case she'd ever had--all of the other patients who undergo this reading are so old that they have humps on their backs and can't lay straight, and can't move their necks at all.

Should I feel better, or worse? I'm not sure.

But hopefully we will have good results and years of fun with the old ticker, and I won't have to revisit Mount Zion until I have my requisite back hump in place.

The Whole Tooth...

Is gone! Gianni finally lost the front tooth that's been dangling in place for weeks. He was starting to look like Ollie from Kukla, Fran, and Ollie. Now, he is simply adorable and three dollars richer. (Thanks, tooth fairy!)

Let's review....

Tough and Ruthless
Rough and Toothless