In With the New House

Today is the last day of the "40 Days of Writing" project. It is also the first day I'm completely out of Greyhouse and into...what are we calling this place? Yet to be determined. So far Liam has just called it "house", but he's got to come up with something better than that. My vote is "Chateau Chaton".

We're home!

I've done a lot of moves over the years, but none quite like this. This time the Universe lent a hand. Too bad the Universe didn't have a truck.

The big way in which the unseen forces of the Universe were clearly working their magic was the miracle of just getting this house. A couple of months back, when Jodee and I began toying with the idea of cohabitation, we put out some feelers (started checking Craigslist). Everyone talks about the abysmal renter's market in our area but we weren't too particular and found a number of potential candidates. None were ideal. Most were too expensive, and those that were reasonable were way too far from town. Like Windsor far! I know, right?! Eww. But we applied for them. We wrote cover letters, donned our Sunday bests for walk throughs, used enticing self-descriptors like "painstakingly tidy" "treat the place like it's our own" and "looking for a place to settle down", and even went so far as to downplay the existence of my own kids (sorry boys, means to an end). Regardless we were rejected by each one flat out. It was depressing.

Then, the Universe came in, snapped it's fingers and exclaimed "Bitch! I told you don't sweat this shit!" (in my mind the Universe is super sassy). Right when we wanted to throw in the towel we found our gem. It is four short blocks from downtown, 100 YARDS from the Giorgi Park, and literally a stones throw from a number of close friends' houses. It's true, I checked and now my arm is sore, my friends are pissed, and I'm all out of stones.

Oh! AND it's CHEAPER than everything else we'd looked at. That means that every rejection we got was a dodged bullet. Thank you UNIVERSE, you sassy, punking, sadistic bitch! I love you!!

But the Universe didn't stop there, oh no. Weird things have been continuing to happen. Minor things, but spooky great. For example, I tried to sell my couch on Craigslist but not surprisingly there was zero interest in an 8-year-old wonky sofa stained with formula and toddler crust. I scheduled to have it picked up by the Salivation Army, but those drying out sad sacks didn't bother to call or show for the three hour window they'd given me. I was livid. But lo, the very next morning my forgotten Craigslist ad gets some action. Jodee wakes me up to tell me that the local theater wants it for their upcoming production of "Noises Off". Cash the next day plus two free tickets to see my baby in the show. Boom.

Crazy right? Wait there's more!

Yesterday I was setting up speakers and heard some objects rattling around inside my sub-woofer. The thing has a hole in the side that apparently leads to a parallel universe in which I spotted three hot wheels, a cordless phone (???), and the remote control I'd given up searching for a week earlier. Stop it Universe, you're freaking me out! After watching me spend a good hour of precious moving time with a coat hanger and a flashlight, cursing at my remote that was so close and yet so far away, Liam walked over and did this.

 Kind of a dick move on his part, but I was grateful nonetheless.

"Grateful" explains my mood best. Or maybe "completely and totally mentally and physically exhausted". Yeah, that too. I want to wax poetic about this stage of my life, but mentally and physically I'm spent. This is all I've got for now, but after a nap and a trip to the chiropractor I'll be back to blogging full time and exploring the greater meaning of life, love, and parenting. I have a feeling there's going to be plenty of material from here on out.

The Aspiring Writer

Since Evie mastered the skill of writing, she likes to write a lot. Lists, reminders, notes, Valentines, cards, letters - you name it, she’ll write it. This has been lovely because sometimes she uses this as a tool to communicate in lieu of actual words. I especially appreciate this in the mornings when, instead of being woken up to hear the minute details of her demands for the morning, I wake up to scraps of paper on my face:

Another thing that has come out of Evie's newfound love for writing has been her willingness to reflect. When she's upset, she will sometimes disappear for a few minutes and then come back with notes explaining what was bothering her. This series shows that she felt her brother was being mean to her after building her a fort, which upset her, causing her to be mean back. For one second.

So you start acting mean to me and you just built me a fort...
I am sosososososososososo sory that I was mean that one sekant I love you.

Sometimes she offers friendly reminders to us as well, in written form. When her brother recently promised to teach her something, he seems to have been lagging (in her opinion). Apparently, the first note worked, so she was inspired to offer a follow-up to show her appreciation.  

Her brother and I aren't the only ones to benefit from Evie's writing. Hours are spent making cards and posters, stapling self-made 'books' and zines, and creating to-do lists. Overall, it has become a very useful tool. 

The other day Paulie was on the phone with the internet company - again - and was frustrated. Evie came up to him and tried whispering something, but he couldn't understand her and pointed to the phone with a 'sorry' shrug of apology. A few minutes later, she tried again. He assumed she wanted a snack, so he ruffled her hair and whispered "just a minute, kiddo." She walked away again.

Finally she came back, with this:

How sweet is that?! Paulie was so touched by her kindness that when he finally hung up the phone after a mind-boggling internet-connection-related phone call and found the next note she'd written for him, all he could do was laugh...

...and make her a snack.

Another Car Bites the Dust

I recently posted the following foolproof ad on Craigslist, then sat back to watch in joy as offers came pouring in. I found myself so clever that I truly expected people to clamber over each other in increasingly creative battles of wit and skill in order to obtain my vehicle.

Beautiful 1992 525i BMW Touring Sedan (that's a fancy European way of saying 'Station Wagon'). Perfect white shiny exterior, easy to see on the roads without screaming "pull me over!" like other, redder cars might. Leather beige interior, a huge, open air sunroof, power everything! Requires a sense of humor. 

Here are some key reasons as to why you should buy this car:

* Do you have a teenager who is about to enter the driving world? Worried about their safety as they navigate the mean streets? This car is perfect for them!! Not only does it have oodles of airbags and seatbelts, it is a rock-solid tank of a machine and won't crumple at the slightest 'oops I didn't check all of my mirrors' incident. Plus it has a few quirks that won't let them get too cocky with their friends just because they now drive a BMW. Once they are adults and realize what a great 'let me tell you about my first car' story you've given them, your kids will thank you!

* Have you been letting your car do all the work when it comes to proper posture? Stop being so lazy! This Beemer's all-electric seats will not sit straight, and the harder you try to make them that way, the twistier they get - thus forcing you to do the important core muscle work yourself. Your back will thank you!

* Do you dream of driving around in the tropics? Look no further! Due to the fact that the rear driver's side window doesn't close all the way, it sometimes rains inside the car, thus creating a spa-like steam room inside the vehicle when the sun comes back out! Your pores will thank you!

* Tired of being distracted by pesky music while you drive? This is the car for you! The stereo, which includes AM/FM Radio, a tape deck, and a 5 disc CD changer, decided one day to stop functioning, ha...ha...haaaaa! Which is actually GREAT, because now as you drive you can focus on your thoughts, dreams, feelings, and the actions of other, dancing-in-their-seats, singing-at-the-tops-of-their-lungs, not-paying-attention drivers. Your overworked brain will thank you! (Quick note: if you happen to get the stereo working again I'd really like my mix-tape back, thanks!)

I want my mix tape back!!!

"Hey," you're thinking. "If this car is so amazing - and clearly it is! - why in the heck are you getting rid of it?"

Well, that's a fair question, and I'll answer it honestly: the car leaks oil like a mofo. I, being a certified tree-hugger with no mechanical skills whatsoever, cannot justify driving the car around when I can't give it the attention it deserves. HOWEVER, this is where you - car mechanic who specializes in European cars - come in. I've had the engine looked at by the very trustworthy and highly-reviewed guys over at Capricorn motors in Healdsburg, California, and they think they know what's up with the car. It's not a big deal, but the labor involved is a pain so they quoted me $500ish to fix it...but that includes changing out belts and stuff while they're in there, so it's kind of a great deal. If you have $500. Which I don't.

So I'm thinking this: YOU know how to fix cars, right? You want an awesome, solid, reliable car...RIGHT?! So buy this car! Fix it up a bit, and BAM!! With only 178,500ish miles, this will be a car you can rely on for years!

So yeah, needless to say, I got some immediate interest. How could I NOT? Sure, as usual Paulie assumed that everyone emailing me were just creepers trying to get laid, but I assured him they were genuinely interested.

They weren't. Once I mentioned the male presence in my household as being available to show the car, these would-be BMW owners split. That, or they took it upon themselves to send me close-up videos of themselves jacking off. Not awesome.

Then I got an email from a kid who didn't really have much in the way of 'money', but had some incentive to offer me instead:

You would be giving me the opportunity to be independent to pursue recreational and job activities. 
In time, I would invest in getting your car road worthy and repair the leaks and other things to ensure it would continue a long productive life on the road. 
The car would explore beautiful places like the California coast, Yosemite, Tahoe and mt. Shasta.
You would gain some serious good karma which I would pay forward. 
 
Did that kid say "good Karma?" SOLD!!

Actually, not. I couldn't sell him the car because my newly-acquired good karma would have been shot the first time he tried to drive that thing to Mount Shasta and failed miserably in an overheating pile on the side of the road.

The quest continues. And of course by 'quest' I mean that I'm probably going to donate the car to charity. I was hoping to recover some of the thousands of dollars I've put into it since becoming it's proud owner, but more than anything, I just really want it to stop dumping oil into my driveway.

I sure will miss the nice compliments I get from the ad, though. 

The 'Happy Ending' emails, not so much.

Goodbye Greyhouse

Parents know how it is. There are moments that bookmark the story of our childrens' lives. There are big ones that we use for points of reference, like births of siblings (i.e. when was that picture taken of Liam taking a dump in Mexico? Ah yes, the Christmas before Finn was born). Then there are minor ones that stick with us. I had one of those minor moments yesterday and I didn't want to forget it. Thank God Apple for the ubiquity of cameras.

That's Finn and Liam sitting on our curb, waiting for the school bus to pick Liam up from Greyhouse one last time. It's been less than a year since the boys and I moved into the crummy little grey apartment building that I constantly complain about. Well now we're finally moving out and, of course, I'm gonna miss it. 

Let Them Wear Pink!

I'm standing here at the counter at Sprout, and I'm getting a tad disgruntled because Google is not being my friend right now.

I carry a great t-shirt line called Rock n' Roll babies, which has fun images on organic cotton shirts, all designed and printed in San Francisco. Sadly, they've gone out of business.

My son's favorite shirt, until he outgrew it

They had one t-shirt in particular that I was eager to re-order. My customers always love it, and I've been proud to carry it in my shop where I encourage fuzzy gender role definition and have happily sold nail polish to boys and toy tool sets to girls, because, um, who cares? The shirt was pink and read: "Boys Can Wear Pink."

In doing a quick search for an alternative, I found an underwhelming selection, and far too many blogs and discussions about whether its even 'okay' for people to dress their sons in pink in the first place. Needless to say, it ruffled my feathers. Why is this even a discussion in 2014? Sure, that's mostly a rhetorical question because while I am lucky enough to live my life in an accepting way and surround myself with other open-minded, tolerant people who care more about their children's happiness and emotional well-being than in carrying forward archaic and ill-advised 'rules' that someone told them in preschool, I realize that there are a lot of people outside my bubble who don't feel the same.

The first story to come up in my search for more pink shirts was called "Should Little Boys Wear Pink?" to which I say, duh, why not? However, the blog is very Catholic-y, so frankly it's what I would expect to find there. In it, the author sites another blog post which she disagrees with, and while I also wasn't surprised to find that one at Salon.com, I was shocked and saddened by the uber-hateful, angry comments that poor guy got. Yikes.

I'd like the authors of both to know that they seem like very nice people and I respect that we are all entitled to our own opinions. The fact that we've created this platform with which to express our thoughts shows that we are confident in those opinions, regardless of whether others agree or not.

One thing from that first post I did not agree with, among others, was this statement: "Any dad who wonders if his sons are naturally more active and aggressive creatures than their sisters should spend an afternoon watching them play. Here’s a hint: There won’t be many tea parties."

Erm...really? You don't think so? Huh.

First of all, Paulie's son spent countless hours as a child playing with and intricately arranging his tea set. I'd venture to say it was his most prized toy. I've met roughly a bajillion little boys in my day between my business and, well, my life, so I can say with confidence that he's not the only boy I know who loves himself a play cuppa. So seriously, with that statement, puhlease. Perhaps you're not seeing it because boys in your circle are being told they can't. Here's a hint: if you stand back and give your children a little freedom for creativity, they'll play with whatever they damn well please, and be better adjusted, more confident, compassionate adults for it.

Second of all, if you haven't already met them, allow me to introduce you to my children:

Raaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr!!!!

My daughter is the first one to reach the top of the gravel pile. She speaks her mind, fights for who and what she loves, and Takes. No. Shit. She dresses herself in anything from what can traditionally be described as 'girly', to her brother's beloved hand-me-downs because, again, who cares? And nobody gives her a hard time when they see her wielding a hammer or wearing blue cargo shorts.

My son's most long-lasting favorite color was purple. He played dress-up almost 24/7 using scarves and other crap he found around the house - sometimes he was a pirate, sometimes a mermaid, sometimes a superhero. (Yes, I said mermaid. If any of you have a problem with the fact that my son sometimes pretended he was a mermaid, I will NOT threaten to kick you in the throat - because I am not that agile. Also, I am a peaceful and loving person and I don't have time for your ridiculous noise). His favorite shirt, until it fell apart, was the afore-mentioned Boys Can Wear Pink t-shirt. So when I saw one of the comments found on the above linked blog, I laughed out loud:

"This past weekend, hubby took the family out to dinner at a local pizza parlor.  While seated, hubby sees this a little boy, approximately 10 yrs. old wearing a pink shirt emblazoned with:  “Tough enough to wear pink!”

Hubby, turns to his 4 sons and says:  “Not on my watch!  Just try it…that boy didn’t pick out that shirt and neither did his dad.  His mom bought that.  Shame on her!”

God bless real men."

So, let me get this straight - your husband saw a kid in a public place (i.e. none of his business) wearing a shirt he didn't like (not his kid, none of his business) and was so put-off by said shirt (because of it's...color, ahem) that he threatened his own children should they dare to wear that color in his household. He drove his point home by not only shaming the child, but also the child's mother (based on his own assumptions), in front of his sons. And you, wife of hubby, are proud of this behavior and the lessons it is teaching your four sons in what it means to be a 'real man'.

Wow. Thank both your god and mine that I am not in your family.

What are we teaching our boys when we tell them they can't? They can't play with tea sets, can't dress up as feminine characters or even animals - ladybugs, bunnies, kittens - any of those okay? No? Okay then, moving on. They can't wear a specific color. Can I just go out on a limb here and be the one to ask WHY? Why are you so threatened by the idea of your son doing any of the above? Because guess what: all of the reasons you're coming up with right now? Those are 100% about you, and your insecurities. Maybe try keeping them to yourself.

Kids are born liking what they like. Period. Hey, one of my six brothers ran around in a purple sparkly one-piece bathing suit for an entire summer as a kid and sews for a living now, and he's a confident, well-adjusted, totally hetero dude - and if he wasn't, who cares? Another one did the majority of the cooking and childcare in our household and grew up to be a super-tough Marine. They turned out fine, you guys. Settle down.

When my son walked into my shop and first saw the Boys Can Wear Pink t-shirt, he eagerly asked if he could have one. I could see it in his eyes: he was feeling validated for his love of all colors, despite recently being told by some Kindergarten peers that some of those colors weren't allowed in the world of boys. How sad.

My kids know that I don't just hand out stuff from the shop to them willy-nilly. If they want things badly enough, they earn it through their behavior and by doing chores and helping around the store. That kid was hell-bent on getting himself the t-shirt and, once earned, he wore it as often as possible. 

Would you share crayons with a kid in pink?

On his first day of first grade he walked into the kitchen where I was cooking breakfast. As usual, he'd gotten himself dressed and he was beaming, proudly wearing his favorite shirt. He said "I'm going to wear my 'Boys Can Wear Pink' shirt today, so everyone at school knows it's okay for boys to wear pink!" He was so excited to to be the self-appointed bearer of a positive message to others. At this point in his young life he was not unaware or unaffected by the dark scowling under-element of insecure judgement floating around out there.

But he did want to change it. I was so freaking proud.

His decision didn't hurt anyone. He wasn't promoting violence, or hatred. He was just wearing a shirt that he really liked and told him - along with his parents, family, friends, neighbors, community - that he could wear it, if that is what he wanted to wear. So, yeah, what's the big deal, yo?

To the 'real man' dad referred to in italics above - what if that kid's dad did buy his son the pink shirt? What then? Or if his mom bought it, maybe it was at his request - how is that hurting you? Because what I'm seeing here is that the kid in pink has a much higher level of social intelligence and love of humankind than you -- you, the God-fearing Christian who chooses to threaten his sons should they try wearing a color you don't approve of -- could ever dream of. Yes: a child is more evolved than you. Congratulations.

Rant over.

Oh, and to anyone who might suggest that I, as his mother, am responsible for my son feeling comfortable wearing pink as a young kid but he would 'know better' by now, sorry to tell you this but he still wears whatever the heck he wants to, and he couldn't give a hoot about what you think, so go find some other completely undeserving person to judge and bully. You are disappointingly adept at it.

Super-rad pink & purple tie-dye tank
made lovingly for him by his sister

On another note - does anyone want to make a cool new 'Boys Can Wear Pink' t-shirt for my shop? I know a couple of kids who'd love one.

Out With the Old House

My short sale is finally over. According to the internet, short sales take 4 to 5 months on average. Mine took 8 months. The circumstances that affect the length of a short sale are well beyond my comprehension, and at this point well above and beyond my caring. All I know is I've signed my last paper and now my house is someone else's problem.

Hooray!

Over the weekend I did one last walk through to see if I'd left anything behind. We had cleared out of the house completely back in July to make way for the blind man, and the place had been left vacant since. It had an odd feel. The air was cold and a bit stale, the weeds I'd fought for five years were taking their revenge unencumbered, and the pool was teeming with life. The only thing I had left behind were a few kegs in the garage that I'd used for winemaking and a couple of cases of "port" I had made in 2009 for Liam. The port was so I might have a homemade wine from Liam's birth year that I could share with him when he turns 21. Unfortunately, a few months earlier someone took a brick to the back window of the garage and relieved me of my son's birth right. Cheers to them.

Having spent the first years of my sons' lives in that house, the place is full of memories that I found tugging at my heartstrings. Jodee was helping me move the kegs and could see the telltale signs. "Don't get sad," she said. I'm not, I'm just doing algebra in my head while I hold my breath.

"I'm fine," I lied. I kept it together well enough and was just closing up the garage door when I found an old toy. It was dusty and cob-webbed and sitting among the broken glass left from the bastards who stole my son's hooch. It was a little squeeze toy giraffe. You know the one, they're ubiquitous at baby showers. It was Liam's first toy. I gave it a squeeze and burst into tears.

The extremely macho act of lifting two full 15-gallon kegs into the back of a pickup truck all by myself wasn't quite enough to restore the masculinity lost after bawling over a dirty Vulli Sophie teether. I figured a hasty exit was the best idea. I hopped in the truck, tucked the giraffe in the center console, and got some distance between me and that house as quick as I could. It's a beautiful house, but I'm glad someone else is going to call it home now. I felt the weight lift as I drove away for the last time.

Next Up: "In With the New House"

The Biggest Asshole in Berkeley

Last night I drove to Berkeley with Paulie and my dad, who is visiting from Michigan. I'd been invited to read at an event called Lyrics & Dirges, which takes place at Pegasus Books on Shattuck. The organizer, Rad Dad founder Tomas Moniz, had invited me with a small amount of notice, when someone else he'd lined up dropped out. I was excited because I love getting up in front of people, reading, and this would be a rare opportunity to read something other than my old diaries.

Me, wishing I looked more Radical

When I saw that the theme for the evening was Radicals, Dreamers and Freaks, I got a little nervous. I guess I wouldn't call myself very Radical, Dreamy or Freakish in any of the 'Berkeley' ways - like, I don't channel crystal energy into my chakras and dance inside sidewalk drum circles. I don't protest very often or make much of a point to piss off The Man. I don't color, pierce, impale, wildly dress or otherwise tamper with my very average looking body.

In short - I'm pretty 'meh' by Berkeley standards.

I asked Tomas if it was okay that the material I had didn't fit in with the theme. He said "of course! Just have fun and make us smile, or laugh, or cry." Okay, no problem! I've never had any problem getting the laughs. Although, in hindsight I can see that I might be getting laughs because those I'm reading for have a sense of humor.

The first woman read a poem about the female body and all of her wonders. I expected some poetry about the female body, because Berkeley, so no surprises there.

The second person read from a book he'd co-published about poor and working-class radicals in the 60's and 70's who'd organized political struggles against racism and inequality. It was powerful and insightful work, which gave me pause for a minute. I thought, "hm, well this is pretty serious stuff. But hey, whatever. Berkeley."

Then a lovely young Chicana got up and read about migrating to the Bay Area, living in Oakland, racial profiling, and other relevant, serious issues that she was involved in. Her work was beautifully written and optimistic, and full of words I didn't recognize because I don't speak even a tiny bit of Spanish.

By this time Paul was looking over at me sympathetically, squeezing my leg in support. See, the piece I'd chosen to read was a light-hearted one that takes place in a Mexican restaurant, and which basically highlights what a dick I am. I think it's funny.

Scratch that - I thought it was funny.

The next reader spoke about the injustices currently being acted out against the Romani people, and passionately acted out a scene about unsuccessfully attempting to assassinate the evil dictator Mussolini. While I enjoyed his performance very much, I spent a lot of time during it wondering if anyone would notice if I ran away as fast as I could. The damn old woman with her damn walker next to me prevented this escape, though.

How could I forget?

After Tomas enthusiastically introduced me with "well, now it's time for a change of pace!" and it was finally my turn to stand at the podium, I looked out at the audience and noticed several bike helmets tucked under chairs. Oh yeah, I remembered. Berkeley is suuuuuuper into bicycling. Heh.

I read about how much I love margaritas and tortilla soup. How inconvenienced I felt when a bicyclist got hit by a car and I had to leave my margarita and soup. I failed oh so horribly at the Mexican accents of the restaurant employees in my story that, in written form work just fine but when reading them out loud, sound downright offensive.

I have literally never felt my heart pound so hard. I tried my old trick of laughing at myself in hopes of encouraging the crowd to lighten the fuck up, but they weren't really having it. When I dared to look out at the crowd, I saw people shift uncomfortably in their seats, or whispering to each other and smirking. The only laughter I heard was coming from Paulie, and I knew it was mostly caused by recognizing how awkward the whole situation was.

So...yeah. That happened.

Afterward I attempted to 'mingle' as encouraged by Tomas. My 'mingling' consisted mainly of me hiding by the bathroom for a while, then trying to keep a straight face while telling Paulie that I had basically picked the worst possible story to read, and him trying to convince me that it hadn't been that bad.

Finally we left and I was able to take a deep breath. "That. Was. The. WORST!" I laughed in horror. Paulie and my dad did not disagree. (Although, being my dad, he told me that my story was his favorite - thanks dad!)

As we crossed the street I did a brief re-cap: "let's see, I've got the fact that I admit that I feel a margarita is more important than a human life, I'm in a huge bicycle-loving town talking about a bike accident I don't care about, I've got fantasies about forcing someone to have sex with me, and I've got a mangled Mexican accent in a cultural town and with at least one very proud Chicana in front of me...yeah. Amanda for the win."

Paulie, ever my number one fan, tried to console me. "You know, if you think about it, your piece was actually the most radical story of the whole night, because it goes against everything that Berkeley stands for."

That cheered me up. But, I don't take myself too seriously, and I have a sense of humor, so I guess I'm easily cheered. Even if I am the biggest asshole in Berkeley.

To read the story in question, click here.