How. Dumb.

First of all, the Russian accents are awful. They occasionally slip into Indian territory. And the Russian flies are all red-eyed and evil and obsessed with beating the American flies. Not because they are passionate about a moon mission, but because they don’t want the Americans to win. Because non-Americans are jealous and devious all the time, right? They don’t have goals other than hating on us. That’s definitely the impression I want to leave my child with. Thanks, Tim Curry.

Oh wait, I forgot the best part. The woman fly saves the day with her motherly love. She can’t actually do anything physical because she faints every time there’s a challenge presented to her. Good times.

I drove through the Mission today on a quickie errand. With all my life centered in the East Bay, and aside from making the occasional run for Peruvian food or ice cream or Quesadillas Suizas (you can see what my priorities in life are), I am rarely anywhere near Valencia Street anymore. But the Mission and I go back and we go deep. I had nearly forgotten that until today.

It has changed so much the last 10 years, from mid 90’s bike messenger gritty to swanky sushi bars (during the dot-com boom), then back to gritty again and now to this weird vacant Carroll Gardens-like hipster good restaurant enclave.

It’s always been a love-hate thing. I have been rolling my eyes at the Mission for YEARS, mostly due to its Trustfundian population.. you know.. the MFA students with their penchant for space rock, weed, rent control and really expensive shoes. I always looked down on the Mission from my other, more ironic ‘hoods that were, in truth, just more affordable (in retrospect, we weren’t all that punk rock). But we spent endless afternoons reading and sunning in Dolores Park, and nights in the Mission’s countless coffeeshops that didn’t mind our puffs of cigarette smoke, rants about consumerism and things like lack of adequate research on women’s health issues. We wanted passionate lives but didn’t know how to create them yet, and were contented to rely on passages from Howard Zinn books and Ani Difranco lyrics to inspire us.

When I moved to the city at the ripe age of 22, I was damaged and heartbroken. I had come to reinvent myself, but not from a place of reason and confidence; more for a lack of any other viable option. I recently had left Santa Cruz penniless and much more wise about recognizing the signs of heroin addiction when choosing a potential soulmate (long story, clearly). I had also been gathering momentum to put out my first album, and it seemed that San Francisco was a swell place for such a DIY project. Nothing made sense at that time but determination, and the Mission was a perfect landing place for me with its chaos, clubs, thrifty art stores, dirt, and renegade nonprofits.

At that age, we sought to fill the holes in our lives with experiences, so life emanated from the weeklies. We would scan the SFBayGuardian for show and club listings every Wednesday evening over a pot of coffee, and I felt an intimate connection with most local bands. We showed up for every operating all-girl dance party in our tank tops, overalls and purple lipstick, ready to dance all night*, even the ones in biker bars or office parks. I worked long hours as a nanny on the Peninsula and wrote lyrics on the train ride home and music in every spare moment. I reserved any actual personality for nights and weekends- work was a necessary function to fill. Like toothbrushing or tax filing. I went against traffic each morning, literally- standing at the train platform with my spiky bright red hair and camouflage pants, eyeing the “suits” on the other side on their way into the Financial District for a meeting as I headed south. I scowled at them. We laughed at them in the evenings over cheap bottles of red wine on our building rooftop and talked about how we’d never get suckered into that life. We wouldn’t take any pre-prescribed circuit. Screw ‘em. We would subvert the patriarchy… somehow.

I can still feel that energy on Valencia, even if it isn’t coming from the community so much (there seems to be much more passion about Bi-Rite than politics, and the pirate radio has long been shut down). On those wide, dirty streets, I am still in my twenties, fighting a serious battle against the man, and trying desperately to hold on to what I believe in. I can still feel the flutter of working up the nerves to walk into Aquarius Records and ask if they want to carry my label’s releases, or promote my show. The store is still there, thank goodness. As I drove past, I thought about dropping in for music and saw a girl who looked a lot like me, posting her co-op flyer and having a quick smoke outside.

*A side note. It is difficult to dance in platform military boots. I know grunge is having its resurgence so I’m just warning those of you who didn’t rock it the first time around. Source alternative footwear for clubbing.

press photo from '98. cool schmool.

Then she took the five year old and left to spend the day in the city, leaving me to do WHATEVER I PLEASE with my morning. Isn’t she nice? No, you cannot have her.

Cue the Roku stream of Rachel Maddow’s Friday show about our withdrawal from Iraq, couch, and a big awesome bowl full of coffee.

That’s pretty dorky, I guess.

But I don’t care. It was bliss. Even Cherry the Terrible Dog enjoyed it. And she never enjoys anything unless it comes out of the garbage can.

If we had talked at the end of May, I’d have told you I was on my way to New York, as soon as I lined up a job. By June, I’d have told you my real estate agent had a few garden brownstone apartments lined up to view, and that my daughter’s Park Slope school was the cutest thing in the world. After all, we had gone, researched, clamored online for borough opinion and made several scouting trips over the prior year, investigated every freaking neighborhood from Jackson Heights to Sunset Park and back. By July I had already seen the beginnings of our life there, and wandered around the DUMBO waterfront imagining how my two dogs would adapt to the change. We were definitely on our way East, and were absolutely thrilled about it.

I wore a Leifsdottir black dress with a navy ruffle and cute Kenneth Cole Louboutin knockoffs to an amazing interview in Midtown, where my new agent ordered a Tom Collins and over lunch pitched potential positions for me in the city. I joined my favorite family shortly after in Queens to celebrate this amazing day over Sangria and get a head start planning all the dinner parties we would soon be co-hosting, and all the fall family getaway trips to the New England rental of our dreams.

I had a little secret during this small celebration that at the time, seemed impossible and was therefore out of mind. I very much doubted that my wife was actually pregnant, since we had only made a few attempts and had surely depleted our karma bank with quickly conceiving our first child. She was home in Oakland that week, calling my cell phone, while I was wandering around New York investigating bilingual afterschool programs and considering commute times, leaving successively confident messages that our expectations of a year or two of trying to conceive were possibly very inaccurate.

The thing is, I never expected this kid to be so easy to create. With all the tools and systems in place in the lesbian baby-making paradise of San Francisco and Oakland (Oakland has more per-capita lesbian families than any city in the world. Did you know that?) it was an easy project to launch here and, frankly, a safer place to consider it. We have advocates for our needs here. Strong communities of inclusion for our multiracial gay family. Lots of supporting friends. A willing nanny and great preschool. Swift second parent adoptions. These things are key. I figured we’d move the process East along with the rest of our lives at some point. And it was important to just keep living and not get suckered into living for conception only.

I was planning to finally finish my degree at NYU and had gotten the green light to go. My wife was thrilled with any prospect of change. Life had been stressful and gloomy for awhile and we needed a boost.

A boost we got!

Obviously, our plans have changed. The limitations of what would be zero vacation time from a brand new job and no Paid Family Leave (come on, NY, get it together) the financial investment of moving your family zoo across the country, the timing of the school year and the beginning of kindergarten and lots of boring things you don’t need to hear about, have thrown a curve into this little plan of ours.

I still love you, New York. And someday you’ll hand me the key to my garden brownstone. But I need to let you go and focus on this little life I’m living here for now. In an awesome 1940’s townhouse with access to world renowned vineyards, a revolutionary food community (from the coast who thought of it first), a neighborhood full of art and inclusion, wacky politics and amazing coffee, nontoxic beaches and Indian summers. Bumping into Meshell Ndegeocello at Whole Foods and Ledisi at IKEA. Over 1000 square feet of home ownership.

Maybe in thirty years I’ll still be here. Who knows. I’m leaving the door open to everything, including bright California sun to guide us through these next few years.

Will you ever forgive me?

Leila-isms are oft-repeated in our home. We quote her more than any kid I nannied, taught or cared for in a ten year span (which at last count, including the girls who attended my South Central Los Angeles, pro-bono dance classes, totaled over 100). And no quote more often than this (said in a whiny, insistent, depressive tone): I Want To Watch Tee-Wee.

Leila was allotted only a few short hours of Dorothy or Wallace and Grommit reruns weekly and consistently tried to manipulate me into giving in and throwing a video on to keep the complaints to a minimum (which I did not do, of course. In case you’re reading this, mom of Leila. We made whole grain granola and read Proust instead).

My daughter has shortened this phrase to simply “I want to watch”. Which is probably because she’s a Taurus and doesn’t have time to pansy around with long complicated five-word sentences. She’s also amazingly confident navigating the remote and often masters new search functions before we even know about them, prompting quick grab-and-recoveries like “yes that was cartoon but, honey, it’s the grown up kind” (Yikes).

So our family tee wee habits have waxed and waned. For the past year we’ve not had ANY cable, and instead have been streaming stuff from our awesome Roku box, which enables us to watch all the horrible movies that Netflix offers for free, but also a guaranteed nightly viewing of Rachel Maddow on the news channel, cheaply rented movies and TV shows from Amazon, and the occasional addition of a great movie to Netflix’s Starz queue. We have a cute little flatscreen Hanspree monitor connected to the Roku, the DVD player and the living room stereo, forming a poor girl’s version of a home entertainment system and it’s been just peachy.

But then we have this baby coming. In December our world will be rocked and we’ll be exhausted by a new tiny person (I’m still trying to catch up on sleep from the first one. Five years ago). And I recall VIVIDLY that there’s nothing more lovely than fondling the remote control while the baby drops back to sleep at the tail end of a 4am feeding, and finding a reminder of the wonderful outside world, still glamorous and with room in it for you, in the form of Bravo, HBO and A&E.

As part of preparation for said baby, I’ve been ogling U-verse ads that come, and finding sweet deals for wall mountable tee wee sets on chain store websites, but I just can’t commit. I suspect my wife, though she appears cool on the issue, would secretly would throw her Marc Jacobs bag into the bay for a night with bonafide cable and a bag of pretzels. Should we throw in the towel and embrace pop culture? Or save those hard earned cable payments for some post-partum massages?

yep. i am trying *that hard* to come up with visuals.

So my wife has declared that we are embarking on a new adventure entitled “The Master Happiness Project”. The outline of it is vague to me still, but it appears to involve not being the yuppie scum my sister declared we had turned into when we showed up for Thanksgiving in a Prius and I stopped wearing concert tees.

She cites a few examples of what changes we’ll make: not using plastic storage bags and walking more. I have reason to believe it ultimately involves not using paper towels, since this all began after she had watched “No Impact Man”, a documentary about a young family in NYC going carbon-zero for one year.

I adore paper towels. I spent my childhood as the obedient daughter of conservationist naturalists who baked their own bread and eschewed hotels for campsites. Part of the joy of turning thirty was the realization that regardless of my heritage, I was not required to stare at the ocean and contemplate eternity, and that fashion could be artful, brilliant and life-changing, rather than just vapid, soul-killing consumerism. I LOVE hotels. I can’t wait until my next bite of artisanal French chocolate. What can I say.

She ultimately wants to bump our life quality up a few notches in a permanent way, which is obviously awesome. And I’m down with walking to the library and riding a bike (assuming said bike is chic, weathered and light blue. A girl has a right to make her mark.) But it’s very hard to jump on board a train going into the fog, especially when your life is already crammed full of activity and you just want to make it stop and spend two days in bed watching Almost Famous. And clean up with an eco-friendly cleaner and the quick swipe of a paper towel.

I am down for this plan and I trust my brilliant wife who is, in the end, the one everyone feels cool just knowing. And I’ve been kicking her ass for YEARS, making her stay up late, drink coffee, go to acoustic shows while she was secretly gagging and plotting her escape. It’s time for her to kick my ass for awhile. But if you see me walking around in clogs and carrying a weathered copy of Walden, please come and hand me a glass of mind blowing Pinot Noir. ‘Cause I’ll need it.

Ouch.

Yeah, I said it. I don’t play shows ’cause I’m trying to raise a kid and do things like, you know, make dinner.

One day that will change but in the meantime I can at least pay respects. RIP, EV 8 channel power amp, still labeled from my last recording. I hardly knew you.

I rushed home to meet her, having completely forgotten to leave a front door key in the place I promised it would be. In order to make it home to let her in, I had to bolt the five year-old through heavy shopping center doors on the wrong side of the Bay and back to the parking garage while balancing my lava-hot double americano between two fingers and then defensive drive all the way across the bridge. When we arrived home, my friend and her two tremendously sweet children were sitting on my doorstep.  A lovely sight!

Tonight, after all the little monkeys have been fed and bathed and put to bed, we do as old friends do and try to distill six months of events, everyday moments of disappointment, joy and utter confusion into a synopsis. And pair that with a bottle or two of wine. As usual, there is far too much ground to cover so we bullet point. Job. House. Baby. Spouse. Future. Past. New Projects. Food (always room for conversation about food). Wine. There is nothing quite like this speed round of highs and lows, especially when you have a little person who will be waking you up at the crack of dawn the next morning and not giving you any sympathy if you stayed up late talking. Everything gets thrown into the mix, and fast.

The conversation circles around to my work, since she is on year four as stay-at-home mom, and I am pushing through year five as “I’ll do anything, just don’t make me stay home with the kid all day”. Since I have been working as a family and estate manager for the last five years (taking care of someone else’s family) she asks, “but don’t you want to be the one with the assistant someday? I mean, where you run the show and you need help doing whatever you’re doing?”

I try in vain to explain that my heart overflows when I can help someone accomplish their goals, and that I find insane amounts of joy in making sure things are comfortable, beautiful and peaceful in people’s homes. I say that I have an exceptional viewpoint into lives of absolutely fascinating people, by nature of having clients with great life stories and unique backgrounds. That the experience of being able to walk around inside the lives of dozens of different people over the years, learning their value systems and measures of life quality is unparalleled. And that in the end I am so totally blessed to be let in, to be trusted to help people deal with their aging parents, their hilarious kids, their new dreams, moments of devastation, and all of life’s big and small moments that everyone should be trying to be me. Not the other way around.

I’m going to watch an old favorite movie and go to bed, and not make this an everything-is-everything story. But I just wanted to get it out. I am so freaking lucky to be able to do what I do, it’s hard to explain and sometimes it’s hard to believe.

So once this was all out in the open other facets of my life began to appear dated. Like the couch. Which was a prized possession twelve months ago and is now shockingly and uncomfortably narrow for a pregnant lady, her wife, and a five year old. It’s green. Why did we pick green?

And the books. How long are the essays of Leroi Jones going to sit on that shelf before I pick them up? I forced myself to rummage through it and remembered why it never made it to the bedside table. I adore Amiri Baraka with all my heart, I think he’s wonderful and inspiring and brilliant, and sitting in a small room with his booming voice reading Somebody Blew Up America with an upright bass and jazz kit along for the romp was one of the high points of my life. But the Black Arts Movement commentary of 1968 is not doing it for me. Henry Miller’s Black Spring, even, sits unloved, unopened for years. Once it was a bible.

And finally, the music. Suddenly my entire music collection is dusty, creaky and completely unrelatable. Even things that seemed avant garde last spring are just played. We have seventeen thousand Ani Difranco records but why only the ones through 2001? Did she stop being relevant or did we? Would it pain us to determine what’s happening in hip hop right now and let go of the Method Man 1993? Can we listen to girls play guitars who DIDN’T grow up listening to Liz Phair?

I’ve ordered* a batch of musical joy. And am suspicious that we may be entering what I affectionately call a “bout of minimalism” where all the schmanvas (urban dictionary. look it up.) gets re-homed, and we smile big smiles.

I’m putting all that old stuff to rest and setting a new little boat to sail. I’m thinking of writing a new record (this would be 12 years after the first was released) but approaching songwriting from a more calculated perspective. As inspiration goes, I will no longer rely on the dulcet tones or words of those old reliables. No more repositioning on the sad little IKEA chairs. Time to buy a decent chair, for crying out loud. I need some fresh, new energy to match this summer sun.

Onward!

*that’s right, I said “ordered”. As in actual discs. You can roll eyes all you want. My uncompressed files and I will still be around when your ipods start seeming like little blinky toys.
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