Saturday, June 18, 2011

WAKE UP!

Sometimes I wonder if families living in big houses get to sleep in. Because at our place, when one person wakes up, we ALL wake up.

At some point between 5:55 and 6:45 a.m., a door will pop open, a bathroom light/fan will turn on and little footsteps make their way to the crayons, paper and scissors in the living room. On especially terrible mornings, we'll wake up to phrases like "No!" "That's mine!" and "I'm telling!"

Soon after, Matt and I will play an unspoken game of chicken to see who can stay in bed the longest, though I almost always win because he doesn't realize that I have my Dad's genes and his nickname is Huevos de Oro. Which, loosely and nicely translated, means lazy.

It's always been like this at our house. I know there are families who do this thing where one parent sleeps in on Saturday and the other on Sunday, but we never found a way to make that work. I don't like it, but I'm used to it.

Except this morning, when I wanted more than anything to stay in bed and feel sorry for myself. I began to fantasize about the brown house down the street. I drive by it everyday. It looks like Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hillfiger lives in it: all-American wood with white trim, balconies, three floors.

I'm sure that when someone in that house wakes up, nobody hears anything. And it must be luxurious.

Usually at this point I'd wrap up the post by saying something heartwarming about people in big houses missing out on the pitter patter of little feet. But screw it, I really love sleeping.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

This is how I make lemonade

Today I became a casualty of the newspaper industry.
Sort of.
I didn't lose my job, but I did become a part-time employee. Though because I'm still part of the company, I will not get into details or feelings or any of that. (Sure, I've got feelings and (not many) details but that's not what this post is about.)

Aside from announcing my availability for freelance work, this unexpected news has inspired me to change the focus of my blog. It's been without direction for a while now - aside from my insane school search, of course.

But now, it's full of focus.

See, I live in La Jolla, blocks away from (former UT publisher) David Copley's estate. We live here, in a small condo downtown, for the excellent public schools. As a family of print journalists, we aren't the stereotypical residents, but we knew that coming in.

It hasn't bothered me that I can't shop at the furniture store down the street or even get an appointment to buy clothes at certain places. (Though I have been quite vocal about the high cost of cocktails around these parts.)

The conversations at local coffeshops are about (in no particular order): Europe, business, literature, pilates, YSL, classic cars, real estate, cells and kettle bells. Once, when I was driving my VW Golf to the Y, I looked in the rear-view mirror and realized a Rolls Royce was following me.

That's just the way it is.

Even so, I've been able to buy a latte without thinking about it, just like many of my neighbors can. I've purchased Italian pasta at Jonathan's, a market with carpet. I have a flower guy.

But that's about to change. In July, I become a part-time writer/full-time mom in one of San Diego's fanciest neighborhoods. This is where I'll talk about it. Or whatever.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

A day without me

The girls are on break for three days. (Shavuot. Don't ask.)

And they've been hanging out with their dad. So, naturally this is how they spent their Wednesday afternoon:



And, I mean, come on, how is this not a Padres ad yet?

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Dedicated to North Park. And my cousin, who is having a baby tomorrow

I was in North Park the other day, a neighborhood that's become extremely trendy over the last several years. It's so cool, in fact, that someone once said people who work at my newspaper shouldn't even be hanging out there.

I'm not usually sensitive to comments like that, but this one stuck with me.

See, my mom's first, official job as a hairdresser was in the gray building between 30th and Ray Streets around the corner from Urban Solace, right in the heart of it all. I was probably 14 when she started working there and it was my first time experiencing a part of San Diego that wasn't a suburb or Balboa Park.

Sometimes I'd go to the salon with my mom and she'd ask me to deposit a check at the Union Bank and pick her up a Cafe au Lait at a place on University, which I'm sure is gone by now. The first time I did this, I was terrified. There were loud buses and stray dogs and very old ladies with metal shopping baskets all around. I didn't even know what a Cafe au Lait was. When I ordered it, I swear I thought I was ordering a Cafe Ole! and was disappointed when there was nothing Mexican about it.

I don't even think my mom knows this, but I also learned to drive in North Park.
(She probably thinks that creepy driving teacher, the one who took me out for so long she had to call the school to make sure I wasn't abducted, taught me what I know.)

But my real driving teacher was my cousin's driver, Magda.

Let's get it out of the way. Yes, my cousin had a driver because she lived in Tijuana and it was a perfectly normal thing, especially in the 80s. Thanks to the drivers, I was able to spend a big portion of my teenage years in Mexico. Most Friday afternoons, someone would swing by my house in Chula Vista on their way home to Tijuana for the weekend.

ANYWAY.

So Magdaa wasn't like the regular drivers usually employed by my aunt and uncle. For one, she was a woman. And second, she was young. Plus, she didn't really follow the rules, which for a teenager is *the best.*

More than once, Magda and my cousin would pick me up at the salon and the conversation would go something like this:

"Do you want to drive?"
"What?"
"Do you want to drive?"
"Are you kidding? But? I don't even? Really?"
"It's easy. Come on, let's do it."

I got behind the wheel of the car and learned very early on about the North Park dips, which are pretty intense. And the weird one way streets that come at you when you least expect it. I learned to watch for pedestrians. And buses. And bikes. (Yes, people rode bikes in North Park in the 80s.)

Don't get me wrong, I love the new North Park. I love the ladies at Bar Pink (who I met during another, very different time in my life). I love that one of the last meals I had before being a mom was at The Linkery.

I just really love the old North Park, too. And as I was (very confidently) driving through its streets on Saturday, I felt lucky to have been able to experience both.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

The end of kinderchat

A few weeks ago, I got a phone call from Benchley-Weinberger, the school I put at the top of my Choice list.

We got in.

So, if we wouldn't have moved our choices would have been BW or SDCCS (Co-op), two pretty wonderful options. It felt odd to turn down the Co-op. But it hurt my heart in an unexpected way to decline the offer from Benchley.

Either way, the decision is done. We're signed up at our neighborhood school (pictured).



Now I can go back to obsessing about other things, like:

1. Will my kids ever eat an actual vegetable? (Carrots don't count.)

2. How long will I last in La Jolla without a lululemon athletica outfit? (My aunt already gave me one, so I guess the answer is two months.)

3. Should I go to my high school reunion? (Should I?)

4. If I take two little kids to the Del Mar Fair will I lose one of them? (And will I get them addicted to fried food?)

5. Why can't I get into Adele? (Also: as already mentioned on the San Diego airwaves, Fleet Foxes.)

6. When will I write a book? (Not as long as "Parks & Rec," "Parenthood," "Friday Night Lights" and "Community" are on TV.)

7. Why am I so loyal to NBC? (And Bravo, an NBC affiliate.)

8. Why can I only get 45 words max on iPad Boggle? (It's more of a puzzle than a word game, if you ask me.)

9. Why do I look longingly at mini vans? (Answer: the automatic sliding doors.)

10. What should we do for Matt's 40th birthday? (Please send suggestions!)

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

A trial separation

I wrote this a month ago but wasn't quite ready to post it. I'm not sure if I'm ready now. But what the hell.

I think I'm breaking up with PJ Harvey. Well, maybe not a breakup, but we're definitely taking some time apart.

It's not easy to admit this to anyone. I mean, I've loved PJ Harvey for almost 20 years, making it the longest relationship I've ever had.

She saw me through times in college when I'd get so overwhelmed in a 100-person classroom that I'd get panic attacks. She was there all those times I felt alienated, either from the bar people I was hanging out with or mean boys and even my family.

When PJ Harvey made music, it was raw and strong and charged. It was almost too painful and uncomfortable to enjoy, and that's why I fell in love with it.

And it wasn't just the music. Over the years PJ Harvey and I have been connected. No really. She either releases records or goes on tour in October, my birthday month. Twice she's performed in L.A. (the closest she usually gets to me) on my actual date of birth.

You think it's all in my head, I know. But how do you explain the time I came back from New York feeling all in love with everything about the city and wanting to move there and then very soon after she released an album ABOUT NEW YORK.

Also? Once she stayed at my favorite hotel in L.A. How do I know? Because when we were checking out, who should be sitting on the bench waiting for her valet right next to me but PJ Harvey.

I KNOW!!

I'll spare you the painfully awkward details about how I said hello and then cried about it as soon as I got in the car. It lasted all of 30 seconds and she was very gracious.

More recently, however, the feelings haven't been as strong. She's released a few albums that, while still much better than anything out there, were not her most fabulous. They were either too gimmicky with falsetto-only singing or too sparse. But I forgave her and learned to appreciate her artistic process. I certainly don't expect or want her to give me 20 years worth of Rid of Me's and was extremely happy when she tinkered with electronica.

Even when other music friends and journalists said bad things about PJ, I'd stick up for her. For feminism. For creativity. I did it when she released her latest album a few months ago. It's a record that's all about war in England, a subject I do not identify with whatsoever.

At first, I liked the album and the way she sang about atrocities in such a beautiful way. The girls even like it, even though they don't realize they're singing about dead soldiers. But after many listens, I just didn't feel anything personal in it.

And then, she performed Coachella, a festival where artists go out of their way to do special performances. When I went, I saw Peter Murphy of Bauhaus sing "Bela Lugosi's Dead" hanging upside down like a bat the entire time.
Wait, I'm not sure if you read that correctly. He sang UPSIDE DOWN like a bat. Do you know how long that song is??

Here you can watch it for yourself.

I saw Arcade Fire climb the posts and scream through megaphones as the sun was setting over the dessert.

Magical musical moments happen at Coachella.

I wasn't there this year, but her concert was being streamed live on YouTube. She came out in a very corseted white dress, a dress that limited her movements greatly. And she just stood there and sang in a very quiet and very controlled way. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her show, she is one of the best live singers I've ever seen.

It was just . . . boring. I'm not expecting her to hang upside down or climb things. But I've seen her let go before, really just scream and play guitar and show passion. But it wasn't happening this time. She seemed much older, like an eccentric cat lady, and I was unimpressed.

It was a terrible, low feeling. I tried to ignore it. I didn't say anything about it. But since then, many people have sent me emails and links about her concert being broadcast on NPR and new videos being released and I've had absolutely no desire to watch or listen.

And that's where I am now. Though, as I write this, I feel guilty. I just need to take a break.
Even so, I'm not sure if I'll ever be at the point where I'll start seeing anyone else.