Recently in City Livin' Category

Invariably when you're traveling and you tell someone you live in Northern California, you get that tired old oh-sure-it's-pretty-and-all-but-what-about-earthquakes?! reaction. Some folks will verbalize it, and with others you can just tell by looking at them that they're thinking it and are silently pitying your poor sense of judgment.

As a longtime NoCal resident--16 years now!--I find the whole earthquake thing an absurd reason to avoid living here. (God please spare us tonight if The Big One should hit.) I mean, there are far better reasons to not live here. Exorbitant real estate prices, atrocious bagels, crappy public schools, the almost spooky lack of corn muffins, the unswimmably cold Pacific Ocean....

Don't get me wrong. There are many many reasons why this is one of the most amazing places in the U.S. to live, but I'm also aware of the place's pitfalls. I mean, the bagels. Are. Truly. Dreadful.

Though one thing I will say we're blessedly exempt from is the maddening small talk about the weather that seems to comprise about 45% of all conversational airtime in New England. Frankly, I'd happily plunk my house astride a fault line to live free of that natter.

It's not that we're such brilliant conversationalists here on the West Coast. More likely that our weather tends to be so damn predictable it becomes a conversational neutral. Instead we drone on incessantly about sky-high real estate prices. (I guess we're still boring, just on different topics.)

But every once and a while you get a day like yesterday, and all those repressed or misplaced weather hounds come out of hiding. And sometimes they're the least likely suspects.

So when the Friday Mama Posse convened, the mothers and babes in arms sat at Sacha's kitchen table, and the three-year-olds occasionally tore past in a howling squealing stream. A couple times in the blur I noticed little Ella B. clutching a child-sized rainbow striped umbrella.

Running in from the backyard at one point she called out triumphantly, "I think the rain is coming, Mama!" Causing Megan to laugh and turn to us, "She's been talking about this all morning. The girl is so excited that it's going to rain today." Mary chimed in that she totally was too. I think we actually all agreed. After the typical six-month or so rain-free stretch, an impending downpour was fraught with novelty. Sure, even excitement.

Throughout the day, I couldn't help but notice other people looking up at the gray sky, marveling. No dramatic leaf colors. No city-stopping snowstorms. We don't even have many of those sunny-but-chilly days everyone back East gleefully calls crisp. Sure, you can haul out some heavier sweaters and even boots if you like, though during the days you may still opt for flip flops. Our seasonal changes are more subtle than the showy Midwest and East Coast drama. But to some sensitive California souls they don't go unnoticed.

As the day wound down I chatted with a neighbor out in front of the house. The sun was setting so early it seemed, and the air was cooling off. The much-anticipated rain hadn't started yet, but likely would in a few hours. Even though in our mellow family mode we'd be staying in anyway, I remarked it was the perfect Friday night to be home, snugged in warm and cozy, watching a movie.

Back inside, Mark had dinner underway and called out from the kitchen if I wanted a drink. After a moment's thought, I jumped into the new season with both feet and said I'd take a bourbon and Coke.

Ah, yes. Fall indeed.

At 6:40 on Sunday morning when Paige babbled her wake-up call, Mark and I cracked our eyes open, smacked opened and closed our bone-dry mouths, and softly groaned as we remembered the day that stretched ahead of us. We were having a huge yard sale.

For all we knew, early birds were already prowling around our front porch with the hopes of finding some ignorantly-priced Noritake china. Having to lug everything out of the garage and around to the front yard seemed torture enough, then then Kate's tiny voice joined the chorus with Paige. "Mama! I woke up!"

My God, we also had children to tend to. And in the wake of a supremely fun party the night before--where Mike and Myra renewed their vows on their 15th anniversary and treated their friends to an exceptionally fabulous throw down--here we were, heads throbbing, lying tangled in our sheets like some suburban American version of Sid and Nancy.

Not pretty.

It's just more validation that my on-the-fly early morning nanny service would catch on like wildfire. If I could have picked up the phone for urgent back-up, I would've paid $100 an hour for childcare. Easily.

Anyway, at least I'd consumed a vat of Don's superb pinot the night before and had good reason for my state of disarray. Whereas this past Friday, I had no alcohol-related excuse for my behavior.

So Friday. When I arrive at Megan's house for mother's group, she's in her garage bent over two ride-on cars she's assembling for the twins and she mutters between clenched teeth that she's been in a fantastically crappy mood. It's such a gift that Megan A) admits to her foul mood but still throws a yard party worthy of the Smith & Hawken catalog, B) is the kind of friend who doesn't sugarcoat life when she's bedraggled, and C) manages to do her hair in cute braids despite it all. Megan is rarely off her game, and with three kids under three, no nanny, and a hubbie with a time-sucking job, I'd be enjoying the creature comforts of a sanatorium if I were her.

Anyway, aside from her admission of it, you'd never know the woman was crabby. But then in some weird transference that we tried to make sense of later, the bad mood somehow leeched over to me. There was either some fierce 'power of suggestion' energy out there, or maybe some as-yet-undead part of my childhood Catholicism urged me to take it on like some priest in an exorcism. More likely it was the exhaustion that'd caught up to me from waking-in-the-night children and not sleeping well with Mark out of town.

After lunch, with some help from Mary, who impressively coaxed naked Kate (long story) back into her clothes and even her car seat while I wrangled Paige, I drove home, nearly slumping over the steering wheel, hoping the day's excitement would warrant Little Miss Never Nap into even the smallest kip. I never sleep when the kids do, but since I caught Megan's mood like a bad cold and was generally haggard from the night before, I'd have gladly done a swan dive into bed.

No luck. Kate invoked reserve stores of energy and refused to even play quietly in her room. So when I staggered in to feign some active parenting, I was all over her suggestion that "you be the baby and I be the mommy."  This involved her even tucking me into her bed (bliss!). And the next thing I remember, Officer, I was fluttering my eyes open after having totally conked out. D'oh!

Thankfully the curtains were not on fire, Kate wasn't out on the sidewalk chatting with strangers, and Paige was still safely snoozing in her crib.

The rush of maternal negligence that surged through me went unnoticed by Kate who was tootling around in her room and came over to me saying, "You woke up now, Baby! You want some milk and a snack, Baby?"

And just as I was settling in to thinking "Okay, I dozed off for a bit here but everything's okay..." I remembered that I'd taken a sleeping Paige out the car earlier with the thought that I'd come back, grab my bag, and lock up. Which of course, I never did.

"Mommy?" I said to Kate, because God knows when she is Mommy and I am Baby I can never mistakenly call her Kate. (The house could be burning down and if I called her Kate she'd sit on the floor and scream, "My name is not Kate! I'm Snooooow Whiiiiiite!" And refuse to budge.) So I'm all, "Baby forgot something in the car. I'll be right back, Mommy."

I'd parked on the street, since our garage might as well be in the next town over. And from the second I set foot on the porch I notice I somehow managed to park with the two right wheels on the sidewalk. My God. Had I been sleep-driving? Then I walk around to the street-side door where Paigey's car seat is, and of course, it's open. Not wide open, mind you, but still. And on the front passenger seat? My bag with my wallet, iPhone, yadda yadda yadda. This may be okay in say, Bristol, Rhode Island. But this is Oakland, people. Thankfully--mercifully--it was all still there.

I mean, imagine if I had been drunk how ugly that scene would have been.

Not one to stew silently in my own shame, but to share it (see: this blog) I immediately call my friend Jennifer who lives next door. And she says brightly, "Hey I saw your great parking job!" Oy! Nothing like being beaten to the punch on my own self-flagellation.

But it really was an odd day. Thankfully, no hangover was associated with this not-drunk-but-acting-like it afternoon. I also didn't don a lampshade, call any old boyfriends, or snarf down a whole sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies. (Not that I call old boyfriends these days, Mark...) Worst of all, Mary reported late yesterday that the Bad Mood Virus had somehow been passed on to her. I can only hope that its course of destruction ended there.

And thankfully, yesterday when I truly was hungover, my two sisters arrived to valiantly pitch in with the yard sale--merchandising items, setting prices on the fly, convincing people they needed our old crap, and collecting cash with the efficiency and security of a Swiss bank.

At the end of a long and exhausting day I looked at Kate and Paige across the dinner table and smiled thinking that they'll be there for each other for all the good times, and for all the hung-over yard sales.

Halloween is like black licorice--you either love it or hate it. I personally loathe black licorice but I ADORE Halloween.

What can I say? It's a legitimate day upon which my inner showman can shine. If you've known me for more than say, three minutes, this I'm sure surprises you not in the least.

Hey, materialists get Christmas, romantics get Valentine's Day, and folks like me get Halloween.

I don't consider myself terribly competitive, but on Halloween no last-minute Walgreens caliber witch costume will suffice. In fact, if it ever got to me going that sad route, I'd rather just not participate. And unlike some folks who specialize in the gory, scary, or sexy, I don't like to limit myself. I've dappled some in the scary realm, and intentionally steered clear of the costume-as-excuse-to-show-leg. I mean, anyone with a nice pair of stems and a little imagination can find a way to expose their assets. But the sexy pirate, the tavern wench, the 80's slut, or the naughty devil get-ups not only offend me with their lack imagination--they're just plain tacky.

Though bad taste comes in many forms. And some would argue that in my career of crafting costumes I've teetered on the brink of it myself. But as my old friend Andy Robinson says, "I'm not for everyone."

If there's any one theme, I'd say my costumes are most often reflective of the times. Like in 2004, I couldn't resist a snarky 'tribute' to The Gipper. Wearing a sensible dark wool dress, a scalloped gold necklace and brooch, and a fluffy brunette wig in an effort to make my head appear as large as humanly possible, I was a mourning Nancy. I walked through the streets of the Castro--San Francisco's dearly-departed Halloween epicenter--clutching a tri-folded American flag, sobbing into a hankie and crying out occasionally for "My Ronny." Those gay boys who hated Reagan loved it.

My engineering masterpiece wasn't a terribly original costume, Janet Leigh showering in Psycho. Its merits revolved around its construction. I rigged a piece of PVC pipe in a halo high above my head, from which I hung a plastic shower curtain and a large dummy arm clutching a bloody knife that swung at me. Mark--a non-lover of Halloween who graciously endures my antics--made a soundtrack loop of the famous "WAAH WAAH WAAH" sound effect and secured a micro cassette and little speakers somewhere along my back. Try listening to that for more than  five minutes without wanting to stab yourself. But, hey, that's the kind of commitment I'm willing to make for a costume.

Which is to say I've also suffered my fair share of physical pain. Sure as kids we all had that annoying condensation build-up inside our plastic masks, or costumes that made sitting and certainly peeing an impossibility. But try lugging a hand-crafted sandwich board-sized Wheaties box with a oval cut out for your face to an evening of hi-jinx and debauchery (while trying to look cute and meet men). This I endured for my Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug costume, complete with the bandaged injured ankle she still vaulted her way to gold medal glory with. (Am I dating myself here? She made all the news back in '96, trust me. Michael Phelps may we remember you 12 years from now...)

Anyway, all I can say is that costume delivered a facial ring of fire the likes of which I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I also did a decent job of whacking people with the side of the box whenever I'd turn even slightly. Though my friend Kevin, dressed in a hastily-made but hilarious Bela Karolyi costume--which he perfected by sadistically barking heavily-accented gymnastic directives at me--did his best to guide me through crowds to avoid injuring innocent bystanders.

Some time in that same late 90's era, horrified Noe Valley mothers pulled their children close to them on the sidewalk when they realized my blonde wig, pink satin dress, lace ankle socks, and Little Miss Denver sash was an overgrown imitation of recently-deceased pageant-rific JonBenet Ramsey. Young girls walked up to me cooing about princesses and their mother's smiled, then blanched, and steered their innocents clear of me. And I don't even think they noticed my excellent strangulation-bruising make-up job.

Ah JonBenet. That one was a classic. Those patent leather Mary Janes are still around in a box somewhere.

But really, the costumes over the years are like one's children. How could you ever say you love one more than another?

Last year, more than 7 months preggy with Paigey, the timing was perfect for me to become one with Buddha. (Ask me if I'm still bitter that it didn't garner a prize at the company party, then say, "Don't tell me!" and guess. I bet you'll get it right.) Needless to say, my rotund midsection fit the Buddha bill to perfection, but despite my best efforts at Ace-bandage bondage, I think I was a bit more buxom than would have been ideal.

So often it's the timing that makes the difference between a good costume and a really offensive great one. Which is why while watching Kate and Paige playing from across the room yesterday I nearly squealed with excitement at the thought of two costumes that were spot-on for them.

All it'll take is a brown dress, a little black hair dye on Kate, and maybe a bit of a trim--otherwise she's ready to roll as a perfect Piper Palin. Of course, she'll be cradling Miss Paige, playing Trig, and I'll coach her to do that little spit on the fingers and hair-smoothing maneuver we saw at the RNC.

It's perfect, right? I mean, how many people have kids the right age for this? Not to mention a mother with the utterly unflinching poor taste to pull such a thing off.

Of course, I wouldn't ever really do this. For the costume to be truly authentic I'd need to surround the girls with a convention center's worth of 9,000 or so utterly deranged mis-informed and asinine Republicans. And thankfully I couldn't find that may conservatives in Northern California, even if for the sake of a damn good costume I wanted to.

Paige woke me up at around 2:30 this morning and in the first instant of wakefulness I had one of those bleary-eyed "Wait, where am I?" moments. Then I realized I was home. Back in good old Oakland, C.A., in my very own bed.

We had more than a two-hour flight delay yesterday, most of which was spent in the plane on the tarmac with Mark furiously tapping away on his iPhone to get to the bottom of why we weren't leaving (or being given any information). All he managed to find was something that said we'd already departed, which only spiked his blood pressure further. 

The girls did am impressive show of resisting sleep through most of the flight, a particular feat seeing as it was their bedtime by the time we finally went 'wheels up.' When they eventually managed to conk out they were held or propped up by Mark and I in ways that left our cramped immobile limbs feeling like they'd never come un-numb. (Yet we were still grateful for their sleep.)

It being Jet Blue, I watched something on the order of 7 straight hours of that Bravo show about the Type-A OCD gay guy who flips houses in LA--something people had told me about but I'd never seen. I now feel like I'm dear friends with the cast and if I never watch TV again it will be too soon.

We staggered through the airport bleary-eyed at 9PM with Kate bawling dramatically over something or other, waited forever in the chilly NoCal air for the parking lot shuttle to fetch us and our eight--yes, eight--bags, and finally cracked open the door to our neglected stuffy house after 10PM.

Everyone crawled into their beds in short order. I think we were all sucking our thumbs and asleep within minutes of hitting the sheets.

Sometimes it takes a harrowing trip home to make you appreciate the end to an excellent vacation.

Monday when Paigey and I were tooling about the Mission after my doctor's appointment I noticed a big series of flags/signs promoting a new exhibit at the SF Zoo called Grizzly Gulch.

After a teen-aged boy was mauled by a tiger there on Christmas day, you'd think their PR team would be working towards some damage control. Maybe they should be promoting exhibits with less threat-worthy animals, like Peacock Paradise or Seal Sanctuary.

One hopes at least that said gulch is deep and wide enough to keep the grizzlies on one side and the human snacks on the other.

"I'm already against the next war."

How excellent is that?

Just when I consider cheating on the Bay Area with another city, it busts out a weekend like the one we just had. Glorious blue skies and temps in the 80s. It even stayed warm late into the evening on Saturday.

And on top of an exceedingly pleasant picnic at Lake Temescal, a fun and productive foray into front porch sprucing, and some classic neighborhood moments--including a swarm of kids sitting on my porch eating strawberries and watermelon and jumping off the wall into my friend Jennifer's arms--on top of all that the fabulous weather afforded me an opportunity to bust out my Longs sun hat. Kate, in turn, got a chance to wear a swim diaper. As such, we were both decked out in some of our favorite attire. We were happy as clams, us two.

It seemed that, in mid-April, Summer decided to stop in early for a spell.

For all I know they're having a fresh snowstorm in Minnesota right now, and Chicagoans are still pulling the hoods of their down parkas up around their faces when they venture outdoors. And God knows it's pissing rain in PAWT-lend.

All I can say is, "Bay Area, I'm sorry!"

Kate and I were inside a wooden train structure at the playground the other day with another mom and toddler. The other girl took the steering wheel of the train.

Other Girl's Mom: Where are we going, honey?

Other Girl: To the beach!

Then Kate took her turn at the steering wheel.

Me: Where are we going, Kate.

Kate: Costco!

Clearly I'm taking my daughter on more enriching afternoon outings than that other Mom. But I'd hate to judge her.

Once the mayhem of work died down, it was immediately replaced with an endless stream of household chores based around the displacement of the office for Kate's Big Girl Room.

It's been nothing short of maddening not being able to roll up my sleeves and do my fare share of the work. But the half that doesn't involve lugging heavy boxes, furniture and electronics involved dismantling and re-establishing computer equipment, wireless internet service, etc. So either advanced pregnancy or lack of tech know-how has stymied my usefulness. And turbo-charged with the nesting instinct as I am, this leaves me to just pest Mark, sit and watch, and pipe up with occasional undoubtedly aggravating suggestions.

The whole endeavor has been extremely stressful on Mark, since A) I'm nagging, B) he'd doing all the work and C) he's wedging it into whatever free time he has on weekends. Also because this process entails adding more stuff to a small house and trying to figure out where the hell to squirrel away the stuff we already have.

Can we jimmy another human into this space--replete with its own wardrobe and cavalcade of gear--and still be able to find our 2006 tax returns? At this juncture, that remains to be seen--though we seem to be close to emerging on the side of success. Everything is still not in its final resting place. For example, all our important (and some not-so important) documents still reside in a towering 5-drawer file cabinet in Kate's new Big Girl Room. Good to have them at hand for her in the event that she wants to review our life insurance policy, or check out some detail of Mark's birth certificate on some sleepless night.

And just when you think it's the adults who are in charge of the house-space wrangling, Little Miss Toddler has to get into the mix. When I recently came home from a long car ride and was making my way to the bathroom, Kate stood in my way. "No use this bathroom, Mama," she said sternly. "Why not, honey?" I asked, trying to be patient and not sweep her aside as my pea-sized prego bladder prepared to burst.

"My alligator in this bathroom," she explained. "My alligator need privacy."

I swear I'm not sitting around the house wallowing in a sea of one-eyed self pity. But I must say, there is something in the air that's got me in a mild funk, and I think it's the growing number of friends who seem to be high-tailing it out of the Bay Area.

Monday the Politos packed their bags and bid SF an adieu after 16 years. School issues, the high cost of living, job stuff and general city-attitude malaise wore down Julie's will to continue on here. And after a night of discussing whether a move to Marin or some other part of the Bay Area might be the antidote, the idea of Boulder, Colorado leaped to mind, and next thing you know they were on an exploratory mission looking at housing. Two months later their flat is sold, their kids and possessions are packed, and they've become our friends who used to live here.

In the time they were prepping for their move, they did what I'm sure I did when I decided to move out of NYC. They kvetched and complained about every element of this place that they couldn't wait to be rid of. They lamented the public transit, the pushy people at the gym, the school system and the job environment. Granted, they had had a spectacularly crappy year for a number of reasons which may or may not have been directly associated with San Francisco. But at one point I had to sit Rick down (over email) and entreat him to suspend the Bay Area bashing until they were out of earshot from all of us they were leaving behind. Part of it was I didn't agree with everything they were lamenting, and part of it was I agreed with some of it and just couldn't deal with hearing it. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and drone, "La la la la la la" until they stopped talking and decided not to move after all. (That never happened.)

The thing is, that things don't suck for Mark and Kate and I here. Mark loves his job. I have a great gig too (when I have two functional eyes and am able to do it, that is). And even though we don't own our house, it works for us and is in a great little 'hood with neighbors we've come to know and a great library, restaurants and shops just two blocks away. Somehow, the shift just from SF to the East Bay has had an impact on some of the kinds of things it seems were getting the Politos down. People truly seem to be friendlier here. We're not ensconced in fog. And where SF has an almost weird lack of children--babies, sure, but no kids ever to be seen--we're in a vertible family wonderland here.

But sometimes, despite all this, I feel like my emotional attachment to this place is tenuous. I think about all those places where successful professionals and their families are living happily in large homes they own, in good school districts and with friendly neighbors. And no one is working 70 hour weeks to sustain the dream. Beyond the fantasy image of this place though, I come up against a roadblock when I try to determine just where this Utopia is. And when you add Mark's career in the limited magazine realm to the picture, our potential pool for paradise locales dwindles to even fewer places. And let's face it, New York City ain't going to solve our real estate woes.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend, who casually mentioned that he's talking to some companies in Austin, Texas. He made it all sound like a remote possibility that he'd move--though he did remark on how damn affordable a 4-bedroom house with a pool is there. Despite his downplaying the potential for the move taking place, I could just tell that he is a goner. In six weeks we'll be planning his goodbye party and Mark and I will be down another dear old friend.

Ah well. If you love them set them free, right? And maybe someday, when the time is right for us, the McClusky family will find our Boise, or Boulder, or Austin or wherever it is that the grass is greener. In the meantime, we'll be chillin' here in Oakland if you're looking for us.