Fight On for old SC

I am a diehard USC football fan. I hum Conquest as I do the dishes. I make Trojan fingers when greeting members of my brethren. In my mind, all horses pale in comparison to Traveler. I can't hear Fleetwood Mac's Tusk without thinking "UCLA Sucks."

My husband and I are season ticket holders, which means we go to all 6 home games every year. it's a surreal experience. The games normally start around 5pm, but people typically arrive around 6:30am to tailgate. Parking spaces are at a premium, which means that if you don't arrive early (like we didn't for last week's heartbreaking triple-OT loss to Stanford), you park wherever you can. It's quite a bizarre sight-- people paying random South Central LA residents $20 for the privilege of parking their luxury cars on the lawn and saying (only somewhat jokingly), "Well, hope my car is still there when I get back!"

We've had these particular seats for 7 years, and over that time we've gotten to know the people who sit around us. We're a family of sorts, despite only seeing each other 6 times each year.

I may not know as much about my Trojan family as I do about my real one, but somehow that doesn't seem to matter during the 4 hours we spend sharing an intense experience. We exchange high-fives and hugs when our team scores. We shake our heads in disgust and share expletives when they once again let their opponent convert on 3rd and long. We watch each other's kids grow up, our parents get older, our jobs change. We get snapshots of each other's lives every fall. We're bonded for life. And I consider these people family.

Fight. On.

Pride

I recently received an email from one of my favorite people in this world-- my Uncle Dan.

Everyone should have an Uncle Dan. He was younger than my parents, so he always had the cool factor going for him. As a child, the only time my hippie, crunchy, granola-y parents would ever buy twinkies or other junk food is when he was coming for a visit. He was funny and interesting and adventurous and made you feel special. And as I grew older, I knew that he was someone that I could rely on if I had real problems (like the time in college when my car was vandalized and my parents were fairly unreachable in Europe...the days before international calling plans). There literally isn't anything he wouldn't do for the people he loves.

Uncle Dan isn't on Facebook or Twitter, so we don't talk as often as I'd like. But in this recent email, right after the updates about what was going on in his life and with my cousins (who are on Facebook so I already knew), he closed with the following:

I think of you often and am most proud of the wonderful person you are and have always been. Much love to you, my niece.

I can admit that I teared up when I read it. And teared up again when I thought about it later. My mother passed away almost 10 years ago. My father and I have a complicated relationship. And my stepfather, while a wonderful person whom I know loves me very much, is not the most openly demonstrative person in the world. That means that it has probably been about 10 years since anyone has told me that they were proud of me.

*takes a moment to wipe away a stray tear*

Life goes by so fast that we often forget how much seemingly small things can mean. I'm an adult (or so my Drivers License tells me), but that doesn't mean I've stopped caring that the people I love and admire think I'm doing good. Which is why I'm going to make sure that my children grow up hearing just as much about the things they've done well as about the things I wish they had handled differently.

Growing pains

My husband and I recently watched the movie Grown Ups with Adam Sandler. The movie was just all right, but the storyline about the spoiled LA kids had us laughing hysterically. There's a scene where the elementary school-aged boys are ordering a drink in a restaurant, and ask for "plain water-- Voss if you have it. Otherwise, we'll settle for Fiji."

Let's just say that hit close to home.

A close friend recently told me how she took her daughters out to breakfast and said they could order whatever they wanted. She was expecting pancakes and chocolate milk, instead they asked for "a bottle of Pellegrino and a spinach and egg white frittata."

My kids knew about "restaurant behavior" from the time they were able to speak, and my son was putting a cloth napkin in his lap on his own from the time he was 18 months old.

The times, they are a-changing.

Quite frankly, our kids are all coddled. And we all know it. We truly do. Of course, when their first experience with camping (as was the case with my daughter) involves personal chefs and goodie bags, it can be hard to keep them grounded.

Living in LA is a strange existence. There is such extreme wealth and such extreme poverty. But it's not a real city, where people of all socioeconomic circumstances coexist in daily life. It's a sprawling metropolis where upper-income kids see the world go by from the backseat of their parent's hybrid. And there is such an enormous gulf between the haves and the have-more's that my kids think being poor means not having a large household staff.

I wasn't raised this way, not really. My father's family had money, but my mother's didn't. And I most definitely grew up primarily in my mother's world. I remember vividly being with her at the grocery store as a child and watching her mentally adding up the cost of the items in her basket to make sure she had enough money to pay for them (the days before ATM purchases). Birthday parties were family events, and only once in my entire childhood did I have the typical kiddie birthday party with all of my friends (at Farrell's Ice Cream parlor). I was a latch-key kid, on top of being an only child, so I was responsible for entertaining myself. I made my own breakfast in the mornings, made and packed my own lunch.

Things were different when I would visit my dad. To say the least. My grandmother would take me on shopping sprees for clothes where I had no ceiling on how much money I could spend. It led to more pairs of Guess jeans and Esprit sweaters than I knew what to do with. She took me to weekends at Disneyland (staying at the Disneyland hotel rather than her house which was only an hour or so away), planned lavish trips to Hawaii and threw me a 9th birthday party for me in hotel ballroom attended by California Supreme Court Justices, the Governor, musicians and actors.

To say I've lived a strange life would be an understatement.

And now I have my own children, to whom I desperately want to instill a sense of gratitude for all of the things they are blessed to have. I'm constantly telling them that they have no idea how good they have it. How when I was a kid and wanted to go to soccer camp, my mom didn't have the money and I had to stay home (unlike them and their 12 week-long camp extravaganza each summer). Or how the last thing my mom and stepdad would have done on their weekends is to drive me around from place to place. Let alone the fact that I have never missed a single school performance, sporting event or anything else they've ever participated in. They have it good, and I want them to appreciate it.

Of course, the life my husband and I have given them is their reality. They know intellectually that they are fortunate, and that their mom and dad work extremely hard to give them this life, but they don't really understand what it means to struggle because they've never had to. And honestly, I don't really want them to have to.

I've made my proverbial bed and now I guess I must lie in it. So when my daughter asks me for the hundreth time if she can go to Botswana for her 10th birthday, rather than chew her out for asking for something so extravagant I am going to go to Plan B.

Say no and blame her father.

Born on the 4th of July

The 4th of July has always been one of my favorite holidays.

Apart from it typically being Championship Weekend at Wimbledon, I also remember it being one of the few times that my parents actually grilled outside (with plenty of charcoal). And then we would sit in the backyard and watch the fireworks that went off from a nearby amusement park. It was one of the few times I recall all of us spending time together, rather than being off doing our own things.

My husband also has fond childhood memories of the 4th. His parents are very observant Jews, so most of the "typical" holidays weren't ones that he grew up celebrating. The 4th (along with Thanksgiving) were one of the times of year when he felt as though he was just like everyone else.

As adults, we've created our own July 4th traditions, and the kids eagerly anticipate them each year. We've been inviting the same families over for an all-day BBQ (and I mean "all-day"... we serve breakfast, lunch and dinner) since my kids were in diapers, for a day full of lazy fun. I even make apple pie. From scratch. And guacamole from the avocados we pick from our tree.

Then as darkness falls we head over to the local high school for fireworks, which feels like Mayberry in the middle of Los Angeles. Families stretch out on blankets, gossip with neighbors, kids ride their bikes and toss footballs while listening to a cheezy 70's cover band entertain us with "YMCA." We eat kettle corn, cotton candy and buy raffle tickets for prizes we will never win, all while answering the constant kid question of, "how much longer until the fireworks start?"

My new favorite July 4th memory? The feel of my children leaning against me as we gasp together at the brilliant fireworks display lighting the night sky. Their little bodies squished as close to me as they can get, the faint smell of cotton candy lingering in their hair and getting my clothes all sticky from whatever they've managed to get on their hands.

Nice, simple, easy. And full of love. What summer should be all about.

Summer is just a season

Summer always reminds me of an epiphany I had during my first summer as a working woman-- Summer is just a season.

This was shocking to me at the time. My previous 16 years as a student had taught me that summer was a magical time-- 2 1/2 months of waking up late, bike rides around the neighborhood, trips to the beach, reading whatever I wanted and catching up on The Price is Right (I loved plinko). What do you mean most working people just get 2 weeks off per year? There should be laws against that sort of thing.

My daughter experienced her first shock along these lines this past week when she started summer camp at a local private middle school. "Where is the playground?" she asked in bewilderment upon our arrival. Sorry kid, once you're in 7th grade, the fun stops.

(Although I do think our society would be a lot better off if we could all spend some time hanging upside down from the monkey bars.)

My first real job after graduating from college was as a receptionist at an advertising agency in San Francisco. You see, I had graduated in the midst of a recession (sound familiar?), and entry-level professional jobs were virtually impossible to come by. I knew I wanted to work in advertising, but the assistant positions at large agencies were like gold in those days. Everyone wanted the privilege of making $16,000/year for working their asses off and getting coffee for cranky creatives.

After a number of interviews where I tried to distinguish myself from the 2 dozen other hard working, nice and competent applicants, I suddenly had the idea to try and make an end-run around the traditional process. When I saw that a local agency was hiring a receptionist, I decided to go for the job, always thinking that I would take any chance to get my foot in the door. Despite the fact that they openly said in the interview they had never moved a receptionist into an assistant's position, I didn't hide my ambition, and they hired me anyway. For a whopping $20,000/year-- which, coincidentally, when I was a child was the exact amount I thought I'd need to make as a grown-up to be set for the rest of my life. In my defense, I didn't know about private school tuitions and sellers' housing markets back then.

But I took advantage of the opportunity. I worked twice as long as the assistants did, and learned the workings of the agency inside and out. Any spare time I had, I volunteered to help and to learn. And I was rewarded 4 months later by moving into an open assistant's position. Still didn't stop everyone from asking me how to change the toner cartridge in the fax machine though.

When I look back on that time, I am struck by just how single-minded I was in my pursuit of the things I wanted. I never let anything or anyone distract me. Sure, it's harder now that I've been working for 17 years and I'm just so damn tired, but that person I was can teach a lot to the person I am now. Never give up. View obstacles as opportunities. Conan is right dammit! And I used to know it. My mid-year resolution is to remind myself once again of all the things I've already learned.

I wouldn't sneeze at 2 1/2 months of summer magic though.

Sorry Martha.

As you grow older, you realize that there are those things about yourself that you need to simply accept. No matter how difficult it may be.

For me, it's something that I have struggled with for most of my life, but only really came into play when I became a parent. It's something that is so shameful that I've never admitted it out loud, apart from hushed whispers to my husband when we could be sure that the children were fast asleep.

But I don't want to keep up the charade any longer. The time has come for me to come out of the closet. To say it out loud. Or to at least type it out loud. So here it goes.

*deep breath*

I am not crafty. Nor do I have any interest in becoming so.

*exhales*

"That's it?" you're thinking to yourself. "Nothing about recreational drug use, eating disorders, gender reassignments or unfortunate hat choices? What kind of secret is that? If I had paid to read this blog, I would want a refund."

But hear me out. Somehow in recent years (I blame Martha) not being crafty has become something to be ashamed of. Especially in the world of modern parenting where no birthday party or playdate can pass by without a dedicated "craft project."

But I'm putting a stop to the madness! I'm going to finally say it:

I don't like gluing things or painting things or creating mosaics with my son in the shape of a pirate ship. I hate making friendship bracelets, beaded necklaces or anything that requires me to tie knots that don't immediately unravel. I hate that my cabinets have been taken over by foam stickers and picture frames and pom-poms and other things that make my family room look like an annex of the Oriental Trading Company. I don't sew, so I have no interest in making hand-stitched decorative satchels with my daughter. I don't want to make my own fairy garden, decorate my own ceramic tea set or tshirt, or do anything involving Color Me Mine. And I certainly don't want to even get near things that require me to iron, knit, quilt, embroider, decoupage or decorate baked goods with anything than a standard layer of frosting.

I used to think my kids were missing out, but if the stacks of unused craft kits that are stacked up in their closets (ghosts of birthday presents past) are any indication, they are equally befuddled by this national desire to make things out of sticks and glue and tiny pieces of foam. And no matter how many family trips we take to Michaels, it's unlikely to ever change for them or for me.

Whew. What a relief to finally get that off my chest. Next step: admitting my true feelings about being "snack mom" during a given week. That won't be pretty.

*Note: the above blog post was written with tongue firmly in cheek. I don't feel in any way that my lack of craftiness reflects upon my self worth as a person. And I'm exaggerating about most of it. Except for the pirate ship mosaics. Those suck.

That's what little boys are made of

My son is six-years-old and way too smart for his own good.

I think it comes in part from being the second child. While my oldest has had her childhood experiences carefully crafted with the help of parenting books and 'it takes a village'-esque support groups, my son has been largely left to his own devices. I've never admitted this publicly before but I never even taught him how to read. One day I looked over at him and he had his nose in a book. I asked, "do you know what that says?" He looked at me with one of those patented 'my mom is an idiot' expressions and replied, "of course I do. I've been able to read since I was four."

Oh.

I worry less with him. Okay, truth be told, it's more that I sometimes forget about him. I can't help it. He's small. As long as he's not making a lot of noise or running with sharp objects I figure thing are good.

But by no means is he an easy child. The too-smart-for-his-own-good thing becomes really problematic at school. Especially the touchy-feely, non-competitive, developmental elementary school he goes to. You see, he doesn't buy into the "everyone is a winner" concept. On the contrary, my uber-competitive child sees no point in doing something unless there can be a winner. Which better be him. And a loser. Which better not be him. If he's not challenged, he gets bored, and then god help us all.

Conventional parenting wisdom says that the trait about your kid that drives you the most crazy is the one that will be their greatest strength. And I do see it-- the boredom in school that leads him to tune out during creative movement class and instead develop a business plan for his own start-up. Or the soul-deep competitiveness that drives him learn how to tie his shoes just so he can say he was the first of his friends to figure it out. And the supreme overconfidence, which has meant that he's immediately owned every room he's ever entered since preschool, whether he knows another kid there or not.

He may not have "benefited" from my first-time mommy paranoia, but I think in a lot ways the freedom he's experienced to make mistakes and find his own path have led to the fascinating tiny person he's become.

But I swear, if he comes home today and tells me he already knows how to drive a car, I may just have to lock him up until he's ready to be sent off to college.

Max.

Back in the mid-nineties, my then-boyfriend/now-husband and I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco. He was a first-year lawyer and I was a young advertising executive, and between the two of us we had way more disposable income than we really knew what to do with. We were young, had few responsibilities, and were full of self-importance.

So we decided to take on that DINK (dual income, no kids) rite of passage that indicated we were in a serious relationship... we got a pet. Specifically, we went to the SPCA and adopted a cat.

For those who don't know, the San Francisco SPCA is a big deal. They literally put cats and dogs in their own apartments (representing different styles of architecture found in the City) and they have their own furniture in those apartments. And TVs. We joked at the time that it was going to be a letdown for whichever cat we chose to have to leave their plush lifestyle and come home to our dinky apartment.

The way the process worked is that you went from apartment to apartment, visiting with the pets and deciding which one you bonded with. After you made your selection, you went downstairs and started the adoption paperwork. We spent hours there, making sure we were 100% sure. And then we fell in love with a black cat named Lucy who drooled. A lot. We rushed downstairs to announce we wanted her...only to find out that a family with a 6-year-old daughter wanted her too. They pulled names out of a hat to see who got her, and we lost.

I was crushed. And I had no desire to go back and look again. In fact, I wanted to just go home and try again another day. But my boyfriend (feels weird referring to my husband like that) insisted that we give it one last shot. So we went back upstairs and the first apartment we came to had a black and white male cat sitting by the door meowing loudly at us. He hadn't been there the first time we had gone through-- they told us later that he had been getting a bath. We walked in his apartment and he immediately brushed up against our legs, still meowing loudly (almost like he was saying, "what took you so long? I've been here waiting for you!") We sat down to play with him and he immediately jumped into our laps and started purring. And that was it. We were in love.

After a quick name change (they had called him Ricky, we decided that he was a Max), we soon settled in with our new baby. He was a cat that was full of personality. We called him "The Cat Who Thinks He's a Dog." He loved to play fetch. He slept with us on our bed each night (in between us, under the covers, with his head on the pillow). He hated being alone, and was always in the middle of the action. He was our first baby.

When the kids came along, he was a little resentful at first. But he eventually took it in stride, never complaining when a tail was pulled by eager little hands, or when they decided to dress him up (see the photo above), or thought it would be fun to pretend he was a pony and get up on his back. He was always gentle and protective.

We had to say goodbye to Max this past week, as his body gave out after almost 17 years. The constant of our lives-- through 5 different apartments/houses, 4 cities, our engagement, our marriage, 2 children, countless jobs-- was finally gone. He loved us unconditionally through almost all our adult lives. And although there is profound sadness, there is also joy, and gratitude for having had the opportunity to love him.

He was special. He was loved.

Goodbye my friend.

Appetite for destruction

My 9-year-old daughter caught a bit of the John Hughes classic Pretty In Pink a few weeks ago. I didn't let her watch the entire thing since it's not entirely age-appropriate, but she was completely flabbergasted when I told her that Andie picks Blaine, not Duckie in the end.

"But why?" she whined. "She should pick the funny boy who is her friend."

After my initial flush of pride in knowing that I've raised my daughter to pass the Pretty In Pink test, it did get me thinking about the subject. I told a (male) friend of mine about it and he said, "of course she picked Blaine. Because that's what happens in real life. The girl always picks the jerk and the nice guy always remains just a friend."

Is that really true? Why are we so attracted to things that are bad for us? Are bad boys just like refined sugar and reality tv?

I get the appeal of bad boys. I even dated a few. But after my fair share of doomed relationships and requisite broken hearts, I learned my lesson and ultimately ended up with the quintessential nice guy-- sweet, kind, funny, fantastic father and my very best friend. Of course, it took a over year for me to move him out of the friend zone and recognize what was right in front of me all along, but that's a blog for another day.

My husband has always had lots of female friends (part of that whole "nice guy" shtick he has going on), many of whom are single and constantly bemoan the fact that there aren't any other guys like him out there. The truth of the matter is that there are-- you just have to know yourself well enough to know what it is you're looking for. And to be able to reach out and grab it when you finally find it.

Now if only banishing refined sugar and reality TV from our lives was as easy...

Enjoy the silence

"Never be afraid to sit awhile and think." ~Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun

"Solitude never hurt anyone. Emily Dickinson lived alone, and she wrote some of the most beautiful poetry the world has ever known... then went crazy as a loon." ~Lisa Simpson


This past weekend I unexpectedly found that I had virtually an entire Sunday to myself.

All by myself.

No husband. No kids. Even our cat was at the groomers.

That wasn't the intention. But a combination of a golf-playing husband and impromptu playdates for the kids meant that the next thing I knew I had 7 uninterrupted hours all alone.

I can't remember the last time that happened. I'm either at work. Or at my very loud home. Or driving my kids around. Or out with friends. And my adult-onset-inspired-by-iPhone-ADD means that I don't even know how to sit still anymore. Free time is meant to be filled. There's always something I could be doing...revising my manuscript, laundry, shopping, cleaning, organizing, texting with friends, planning a party. And if I don't fill it, someone else will do it for me. I can't turn around without someone needing something from me. It never, ever ends.

I didn't always used to be that way. I'm an only child, which means I've spent plenty of time alone. I enjoyed it, in fact. Even as a kid I had a very rich inner life (no surprise that I love to write). I'm a daydreamer by nature, which is much easier to do when I let my brain just revert to screensaver mode for a while.

Not that I mind my normal. I think the saddest thing ever would be to go through life not being needed by anyone. To be needed is to be loved. And in my mind, to love and to be loved is pretty much the entire point of everything.

But every so often a recharge of the batteries is needed. My forced vacation from myself was pure bliss. The silence was deafening. And invigorating. Of course it also made me realize that if this were my everyday life I'd end up taking laziness to new heights (or lows). I'm not sure I'd ever change out of my yoga pants or put down my kindle. Or do little things like remember to eat.

When my family noisily descended back into my life by early evening I felt refreshed. Even my son said I looked different. Okay, technically he said, "mommy you look weird." But I'll take it.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

Over the holiday break we took the kids up to San Francisco, a city that holds a very special place in our hearts. I lived there for 10 years with my then-boyfriend now-husband, during which time we got our first real jobs, quit our first real jobs for new jobs that paid more money, got married, had our first baby and basically lived out the bulk of our twenties in your typical narcissistic yuppie fashion.

We moved for a variety of reasons, personal as well as professional, and I recall being devastated at having to move to LA of all places. A city I had always ridiculed in my vaguely superior, NorCal girl kinda way. We swore that we would visit regularly and not let our then-one-year-old daughter (and any future children) become "one of those LA-types of people."

Last week was our first trip back when both kids were old enough to take it all in. So we went to town. Visited the old apartment and favorite restaurants. Shared with them some of the memories that lurked around every corner:

See that grass over there? That's where mommy played volleyball every Tuesday night!

That's the hill mommy used to walk up every day on her way to work!

This is the restaurant we used to eat at every Sunday morning! We'd grab the Sunday paper and stand in line for hours at a time until we finally got a table!

Oh remember? That's were we had those fabulous tapas after we went to that champagne bar that night!

And so on and so on. The kids couldn't care less about our nostalgia. They just wondered why everyone always wore black and walked so fast. And as time went on, I realized that I didn't even recognize the person I was describing. I mean volleyball and champagne bars? Really? Not to mention the other vestiges of that person I once was-- eating out for almost every meal, knowing the subway and bus routes like the back of my hand (no one drives in the City), or alternatively being able to parallel park on a hill at a 45 degree angle, with a stick shift. Or being able to hail a cab at night, in the rain in about 5 minutes flat. Never going to the gym because walking up all those hills kept my ass in shape. Having no one to spend money on but myself. I was a different person.

Who am I now? LA living has left me without much of a winter wardrobe, and I'm cold when it's 60 degrees out. I drive everywhere. I have to think 5 steps ahead everywhere we go. I try to keep to a budget so I no longer can take impromptu weekend trips to Hawaii. I wear colors other than black and gray. I no longer rush without seeing-- a child's point of view has taught me the beauty of a sidewalk crack or the excitement that only a garbage truck can bring. I'm a little older, a little grayer, a little rounder, but infinitely more patient, kind and wise.

And I wouldn't have it any other way. Well, except for maybe the spontaneous trips to Hawaii part.