Suddenly I am obsessed with summer plans! I cannot get my mind to move on. I’m staring at the summer months on the calendar and assigning color coded mental categories.

“Swim in lake” is green. That’s for midsummer. “Ride large roller coaster” is pink. That’s in June. Overwhelmingly, July is all peach because that’s when we’re going to Atlanta for our very first Family Reunion. Which we are very excited about because we get to walk around the house for the next five months shouting “HOTlanta!” You have to say it with a little George Jefferson half neckroll. And sound kind of like you just took a shot of tequila or swallowed a clump of wasabi while you emphasize the HOT in HOTlanta.

Now, as a little background, I am not traditionally such a joiner. My own blood relatives don’t really get together outside funerals (hardly weddings), and those who do amount to a group so small, it can fit on a postage stamp. My wife, from whose family these t-shirt wearing, caravan-riding, hospitality suite-having hotel based events spring each year, moved to the other side of the country to get away from it in the first place.

I guess we’ve softened over the years. It’s hard to have every little moment of your (gay) family life be unbearably confusing to the world at large, so I guess you could say traditions are becoming more important. Also we’re noticing that though within our immediate family we have a smattering of every color of the rainbow, the representation of color in our daily lives is pretty abysmal, save a very Panthers-oriented summer camp* we send our daughter off to each year. In fact it’s pathetic. We want our kid to be able to claim any part of her identity she sees fit and having her yell out “That looks like Grammy!” every time she sees an older black woman on the sidewalk is a little eye opening as to which category of color is lacking. Which is foolish because the family in Hotlanta is just waiting with open arms to be our ambassadors of blackness.

*Note about Panther camp (it is not actually called that): You know what the best part is? She comes back understanding backbeat. That alone is worth schlepping downtown all summer. I swear to god, it’s like the counselors cure her from her “clap on the downbeat, smile and bounce up in the air to music like joyous white people with arms flailing around” influence of Berkeley throughout the school year and get her back home. And she learns about African leaders, goddesses and community heroes, so it’s all good even though she’s also doing questionable military drills while wearing commie-esque matching bandannas. But I digress.

* Note about this poster. This post is sorta 70’s, sorta Bay Area power feminist. And we’re talking about the Panthers.. oooooh I feel Angela Davis coming on! Yes. Hooray! There she is! I used to have two books in my bag at all times. One was Women, Race & Class. The other was Bell Hooks’ Ain’t I a Woman. Sigh.

So what I expect out of this reunion fiasco is the pretty classic interpretation. We show up and check in, spend the weekend wearing a lime green oversize tshirt that states our purpose there. We enjoy buffets, attend optional side activities like a trip to the local museum or waterpark. We do the electric slide with people we would never have otherwise met. I am told the “butt sisters” will be in attendance. Apparently their rear ends are legendary in a bad way, but then again my mother in law has a vengeance for anyone who has the perky butt she always wanted, so I’ll leave their status undetermined for now.

I have no idea how to do the electric slide. I’ve spent my life avoiding it. What can I say.

Tomorrow night I’m headed east to be the officiant and lesbian of honor for most fun wedding ever. I’m super honored and excited to be a baller in this hell of a good time ceremony and I can’t wait. We’re closing down a gorgeous bar in Brooklyn for the good part of Sunday. I bought a dress that is slinky summertime city awesome. I’m wearing the strappy sandals that I bought for my own wedding several years ago when Newsom opened the floodgates, but never got to wear because the voters of California dammed them up with awful cement bags before we could get inside. And because we couldn’t agree what to wear, but that’s another post.

I am still living in California, clearly. I smile at people and generally obey crosswalks. I get upset when fellow Bay Area inhabitants are awful to one another. I eat cheeses and drink wine that grew up about 30 miles from where I’m standing. It’s never humid or freezing, and my hair doesn’t frizz. Skies are usually blue, there is a totally amazing feeling of freedom in escaping to Point Reyes for oysters and wandering among coastal cypress trees, or hopping down to San Diego and teaching the kids how to boogie board before joining friends for a palm tree patio bbq in the easy summer sun. I can ski, surf, hike, dance, perform, work, thrive here easily. My kids are happy. I grew up under this hopeful night sky with clear full moons and it has all the makings of the rest of my life.

Except it doesn’t. I am positive that I have the best job in the universe. Like, the kind you don’t ever leave. If you work in private service long enough, you become aware that the golden positions are all about who fits you, much more than who you fit. Working for someone who’s right for me improves my life quality by leaps and bounds. And truth be told, that, and the amazing school my daughter attends, a handful of old friends, and widely available taquerias and decent coffee roasters are the only thing that’s keeping me here. (Yes I know, Brooklyn, you have Blue Bottle finally. Go, you.)

I go to New York with equal parts excitement and sadness. I want to be the person who pops in for a weekend, has a blast and then comes back to the life she prefers, the life she intends to live forever, all full of goals and thriving and sugar cookies.

On the bright side (see, I’m from California. I have to have one), the aforementioned perfect dress, a total Tahari score at Bloomingdale’s, makes me feel a way I’ve always wanted to feel: like the women in the opening of Something’s Gotta Give. Breezy and badass in a TOTALLY sexy way. Silly, I know, but it’s a thing.

When I was a preschool teacher in Santa Cruz, watching the summer tourist stream of traffic clog my daily commute up into Felton, I wanted a scooter.

When I was still but a spring chicken in San Francisco, newly minted lesbian in search of the girlfriend who ultimately married me, I wanted a scooter.

Said girlfriend has been so used to hearing me talk about it, she was almost surprised when I actually bought one and spent three days bouncing around the living room doing happy dances. REALLY happy dances.

Through the miracle of Craigslist, I have my very own 1993 Yamaha Jog scooter. It is RAD and gets crazy gas mileage as I’m putting around Oakland picking up lunch, running errands and getting funny comments from pedestrians because I’m also wearing platform heels.

I have named her Michelle Obama because she’s hot shit, wicked smart and totally classy.

I’ve spent years and years surrounded by Type A, linear money making MBA-holding power mongers, all of whom have been very successful and lovely, but most of whom led incredibly uninspired lives. They had copies of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People books lying around in every room like doilies and would draft annual family mission statements because, well, I honestly think that’s the only way left to think about life when all you’ve been thinking about since your twenties is fast tracking, doing it better every day, empowering the paradigms and other awful sounding practices. These phrases are akin to baseball talk to me, which is to say, totally and completely foreign. The communication that happens in that environment is actually soul sucking to me because it’s all about end goals and process, and not about the moment or the experience. I am a savorer. I like the little moments. And the sandwiches.

Anyway, we sat down in effort to make a very non linear free flow list of what might occur this summer in our dreamiest dreams and this is what we’ve concocted. I’ve got several more weeks of maternity leave to make it all come true:

* #3 says Costanoa, which is our favorite easy family getaway just north of Santa Cruz

The other day someone I had known for five minutes said to me, “Don’t you miss your landscape?” (we were discussing my having left the country for the city at a young age) and I about fell backwards into the kitchen cupboards. What a totally lovely way to express an idea. She could have said that a million boring ways and instead she offered something poetic. Just a little beautiful nugget of a phrase.

Anyhoo, this goes out to my super old friend Scott Key, who rocked my world with kindness this week by scoring me the impossible dinner reservation on an impossible weekend.

Scott and I met in high school and had fabulous adventures together for a solid ten years. My grandfather was convinced I was going to marry him, not fully aware that Scott and I tended to have crushes on the same women, rather than on one another, perhaps not a precursor to a strong romantic relationship.

(And can I mention quickly here that once, when it was discovered that we were courting the same girl, he said, “Well, you’ll win, so go ahead”? Come on. This man has had my back for many years. She became my first girlfriend.)

Anyhoo, here is a list of some hysterical things we’ve done together:

• Slept under a giant waterslide in a campground while moving to a state we had never been to, just for fun, because a trucker in a coffeeshop had told me it was nice
• Creeped through the middle of the Hazel Bridge in Sacramento (yes, through the inside, with the cars going across it and all)
• Occasionally hosted a homeless tranny and kept his suitcase full of drag wear for him in our shared apartment closet
• Decorated the living room of said apartment with a humongous framed fabric of Elton John appliqués
• Were mysteriously given a hotel room key in a Denny’s by a stranger, went to the room to find chilling champagne, checked for dead bodies (none found) and watched 21 Jumpstreet on free cable all night

We were adventurous. We both went somewhat respectable eventually. I don’t often find myself inside bridges anymore… if you’re reading this, mom, you can relax.

Scott now works at this amazing restaurant in New Orleans. If you’re in town, please go there and give him an extraordinarily large tip or at the very least offer him a Simpson’s quote. He likes those.

Technically, Milk Tea involves boiling a mixture of various Black Tea leaves for 30 minutes in a silk stocking, making a sort of tea concentrate, then a mysterious final step that only a only a master Milk Tea maker can share.. but one that certainly involves making it milky. I wonder how much can really be left to wonder about, but then I Wikipedia search it and there's a traditional carafe for the dang thing and I get overwhelmed again.

But let's simplify, shall we? We working girls have neither the time nor supply cache to boil our tea in silk stockings or spend an hour searching Wiki entries for the secret. So I've been doing this:

Simmer a simple old black tea bag and a cup of water in a saucepan for five minutes
Turn the burner off and let it sit for another five.
Add evaporated milk until it's the shade of Thai Iced Tea, that lovely creamy honey brown.
Then add a healthy dose of sugar.

Voila! Your new favorite hot beverage, courtesy of the Chinese.

Note: I revere and respect traditional dishes. In fact, I typically refuse to make fusion food, opting for to know more about the traditional dish than how to cover it with peanut mango sauce out of a squirt bottle. If you carry the deep dark secret of how to prepare "real" milk tea, I would be thrilled to know.

This hotel spotlight goes to Costanoa Resort, which lies along Highway 1, just North of Santa Cruz. Beautifully landscaped and simply but elegantly outfitted, this sprawling retreat aims to encourage visitors to take in the gorgeous locale (situated next to four state parks and 30,00 acres of undisturbed coastal land) and take a damn walk (something we rarely plan into our travel itineraries, no?)

The approach to Costanoa, a eucalyptus-lined meandering drive just a few hundred feet from the shore, indicates a peaceful and unique experience ahead. Costanoa’s lodge-style restaurant and modern wood cabins, visible from the main road, add to that effect. By the time your room key is in hand, you’re smelling the sweet foggy air and pulling out your hiking boots. You can check your business-casual at the door: the restaurant happily serves fine meals and cold beer to patagonia-clad guests just back from a day at the beach or an afternoon exploring nearby Ohlone Ridge.

Accommodations are happily varied. Those seeking creature comforts stay in the lodge. Rooms are appointed with unbleached cotton and eco-friendly touches are evident throughout. Design is best described as modern organic, with smart resource-saving details such as closets covered with cotton curtains rather than wooden doors, waxed paper-lamp shades and deck chairs made from recycled milk jugs.

Alternately, there are the formerly mentioned wood cabins, which overlook a soft meadow filled with trails, wildflowers and local fauna.

For the more adventurous, several styles of decorated and well-appointed tent cabins dot the Northern end of the resort, each with a campfire pit, grill, and easy pull-up unloading (one car per site). The high maintenance camper will feel at home here with heated mattress pads, reading lamps, and daily maid service. A “comfort station” is situated closely to each cabin, containing showers, a sauna, and a large outdoor fireplace, perfect for uncorking a bottle of wine and taking in the sunset.

It’s not a roughing-it experience Costanoa aims to offer, just in case you’re rolling your eyes. Sure, it’s not camping, and there is certainly much to be said for (and learned from) a weekend in the quiet of the woods where we can’t use our BlackBerrys or read the paper. One will not need to consider whittling sticks into daggers to hunt for dinner here, or roast said dinner on an open fire while chanting “hakuna matata”, dancing in war paint made from wild berries.

Costanoa just wants you to relax, and come back down to earth a little, with the least bit of effort. And for a weekend outdoors within short driving distance from the Bay Area, where I throw jeans and a few tees in my bag and head off down the glorious coast, I’ll take it.