More Thoughts On Life In Our New Habitat

When Shanti first moved down here he complained to me repeatedly about how fast the people drove.

I told him to stop being such a baby, and reminded him that north of Sand Hill Rd., people on the 280 rarely let their spedometers drift below 80 mph. “The people in L.A. couldn't be driving faster than that,” I argued, “They've got all the traffic!” He sighed, resigned to my disbelief, and we moved on to other topics.

But now I'm here, and I get it.

Holy Mother these people drive fast! And they are not messin' around. They don't slow down even 1 mph when you are trying to merge onto the freeway. Not one. If you do not choose a large enough gap and accelerate rapidly enough to slip into it, that Nicey McNice waitress that just blew your mind with her awesome customer service will drive her giant black Hummer right through your teensy-weensy Prius—without a moment's hesitation.

And the weirdest part of this behavior is the universality of it. It's not one or two loonies zooming past everyone and zipping in and out of lanes. It's a much more coordinated, almost militant affair that seems to involve the entire freeway-driving population. Like they all know about some rule that I am unaware of.

Well, I was unaware of it. I'm pretty sure I've figured it out though: Step on it or get creamed.

I haven't decided how I feel about this yet. One the one hand it does seem a little unfriendly of my new neighbors to willfully attempt to mow me down. But in a way I find the lack of ambiguity kind of comforting. There is no “Should I go? Is that guy slowing down for me to pull in? Yeah, I think he might be. OK, here I go. Oh wait—maybe I don't have enough room. Oops! It looks like he had to slam on his brakes. My bad. Sorry! (Waving out the window.) Thanks! That was nice of you.” Nope. You know that the burden is on you to pick a gap, hit the gas hard and make a decisive move into the lane. Anything less will result in disaster. Draconian, yes, but it makes sense. Who knows...maybe it really is the law and I just didn't know it.

Patience Required

Well, it's Day 3 of the Bowl Cut Challenge and so far not much is happening. It turns out that waiting for hair to grow requires even more patience than the fabled paint watching exercise. 

I did a little online research and discovered that hair really only grows 1/2 inch per month. Is that right? That can't be right. That means I won't have enough hair for a bowl cut until November or December. Very disappointing. I didn't envision the bowl as a winter 'do. A winter bowl seems very serious to me. A conscious choice. A statement. It puts the world on notice that you have an entirely different belief system than they do, and you're not afraid to show it. Like a neon sign on your head. I'm not sure Zeke has the self-assurance to bear the weight of the winter bowl.

The summer bowl on the other hand seems to me like more of a carefree thing. An "I've been having such a fabulous time frolicking in the sun that I forgot to get my hair cut," thing. 

So I don't know what I'm going to do now. I do know that I'm not giving up. Not immediately anyway. I had Zeke try bowls on his head tonight. He has a very big head, so as you can see, the first regular soup bowl he tried looked like a yarmulke. No good. That will give him shorter hair than he already has. The second bowl was better, but still not big enough--which is shocking, because you can make a truly massive salad in that bowl. I'm not sure what to try next. Mixing bowl? Casserole dish? Wok? I'll have to dig around. Guess I've got about eight months to figure it out. 

It's Bowl Season!

I'm pathetic. This is the only newish picture I have of my son right now, and really it's not new at all. It's about one month old—taken at the hotel we lived in for three days after the movers packed our stuff, but before we were ready to head south.

Now that we live here, Shanti and my mom take hundreds of pictures of Zeke in any given week, so I always feel like we're covered in the memory department...and we are (no need for me to pull out a camera--ever). But it means I'm not quite as well covered in the blogging department.

Anyway, I like how short his hair is in this shot. I always like it short. But I think I'm gonna let him grow it out this summer.

Maybe “let” isn't quite the right word since he's not asking to grow it out, but you get the idea. I'm going to stop cutting it. I want it to get long enough that I can give him a bowl cut. Just to see if he can pull it off. And to see if I, as the lead stylist of the NudieCuts Underground Salon (because I require my customers to be naked for easy cleanup), can pull it off. I feel like the window of haircutting freedom is rapidly closing and I have to act now if I want to pursue new styles without complaint. Today he'll let me do whatever I want. Next year he might not think that shooting for a bowl cut is such a hot idea. And I'm pretty sure I'll have to start paying for haircuts (gasp!) as soon as his friends are old enough to know what's cool and what is not.

So today Project Bowl Cut is officially launched. I guess it's actually a pretty passive initiative. Not much to do but wait. I'll let you know how it goes.

Credit to SFGate.com, which just had a Best Bowl Cuts contest. You have inspired me.

Anybody out there?

Hey--Thanks if you're still coming by the blog! Sorry I fell off the map for a while. Moving to Thousand Oaks was a little more disruptive than I imagined it might be. Took a little while to find solid ground and get to a point where I had the energy to blog again. And it's funny, I haven't stopped thinking about blogging--there are at least two dozen things I've wanted to write about--I just haven't been capable of doing it. So anyway, my apologies. Thanks for stopping by to check it out again.

I don't have any pictures to post right now, but I may have some later this week. Zeke is doing great, and so is Shanti. I'll go into detail on their adventures in future posts. For now, a few of my observations about life (back) in the Southland:

-Observation #1: The 80s are alive and well here. At least musically. Where in the Bay Area there might be 80s hour on one channel at lunchtime, or really late at night, here you can find 80s music at any time of day, any day of the week, on at least five different stations. So odd. No 70s, no 90s, just 80s. All the time. Even on radio stations that purport to have some other format. In the car on the way to the gym the other day I was so pleased to find what I thought was a pop station. My good friend Katy Perry was singing to me about how her man was “hot and then cold, yes and then no.” It was good and thumpy and fun. Perfect music for a warm day with the windows down. I turned it up. Then, just as I was patting myself on the back for having found a non-80s station, the DJ throws on a little Devo. That's right—Devo! Whip It. Being played on the radio in 2009. It continued at the gym, where I was treated to Rebel Yell, Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?, and a Pet Shop Boys tune, before the DJ put John Mayer on like nothing ever happened. Like that whole sequence made perfect sense. Same thing at the supermarket, the car wash, the salon. They play Like a Virgin around here like it was released yesterday. And Van Halen? If you just landed here from another planet you'd think they were the most popular band on earth right now.

-Observation #2: The customer service here is incredible. At first I just thought we were having a string of lucky encounters with courteous and enthusiastic retailers, but it's been two solid weeks now and it's clear that this is not luck—it's a pattern. We have not had a single bad experience at a restaurant, dry cleaner, grocery store, or anywhere for that matter. And these people are not just running through the script that the corporation assigns them. They're polite, helpful, and seemingly genuine in their friendliness. We can't figure out what's going on or why there is such a huge disparity between here and the Bay Area (and truly, it's no contest), but we like it.

-Observation #3: The parents down here dress way better than we do (and by "we," I mean Bay Area parents because I still think of myself as a Bay Area resident). Think daddies that pretty much all look like some variation of Tommy Lee, but with much fewer tats, very carefully pressed jeans, and unspeakably expensive shoes and jackets. And moms that are almost universally fit and cute, wearing equally stylish clothing (LOTS of fake boobs too--there is clearly no taboo about that down here). I don't know where these people work, but I'm guessing it's not Amgen. Maybe the music industry, because they even look too cool for the movies.

That's it for now. I know--sweeping observations, totally unfair...but I'm just reporting. Tellin' it like I see it. No offense intended to L.A. or the Bay Area.

The Secret Lives of Amagasus

To all outward appearances, we are a scientist, writer, and cheese-loving toddler. But lock us in the house on a rainy Sunday afternoon, and we become the City of Mountain View's best hope for a gold medal in Olympic tandem couch jumping. 

Oh sure, the IOC is resisting our petition to add it to the official roster of olympic events, but we're sending them photos like these to prove the popularity of the sport in our our area, and illustrate it's potential as a major TV draw. And in case you're wondering, yes--those are the official team uniforms, and the two contestants in the photo above are executing a perfect Flying Cheeseater. 

How can you tell? 

Well, like almost all Olympic sports the feet are important, and as you can see, in this case, the contestant being lifted has his feet relaxed and legs apart. He's also smiling, which is essential (just ask the ice skaters), his shirt is about to fall over his head, but is not actually covering his eyes (tricky--even for experts), and he is not vomiting on his teammate, which is the true sign of a champion--particularly when doing a Flying Cheeseater right after lunch. 

His teammate on the other hand, contributes in a more subtle fashion. His gray t-shirt and weathered black boxer shorts are part of a calculated strategy to avoid distracting viewers from  his partner's flashy costume and flashier moves. His shaved legs help us to appreciate the toned, athletic musculature that is the telltale sign of the world-class couch jumper. And of course he has executed the lift perfectly and is smiling at his partner fearlessly--even with the knowledge that hot recycled lunch could come raining down on him at any moment.

Zeke, Your Hostess is Alarmed

This is the picture I should have posted last night. I originally left it off because you can't see Zeke's face, but it's too cute not to share. 

Why is Skye so wide-eyed? We can only speculate...

"Daddy, are you going give that kid a rabbit? I don't think you should give him a rabbit. Really Dad. I saw him in the bounce house. He's not that coordinated. He's going to squeeze the rabbit too hard. In fact, the more I look at him, the more he looks like a rabbit squeezer. I mean it Dad. Telling him 'gentle' isn't going to help. Dad? Are you listening? Dad? Dad? Daaad!"

Of Course I Took Him To The Party!

You knew I would. I'm a big talker, but at the end of the day, as much as I love cheese, I love my boy more. 

Zeke had a great time (stoic rabbit-holding pose with the birthday girl notwithstanding). He got to ride a pony, ride a fake train, bounce in a bounce house, pet things (although no, a lamb was not present--it turns out that was a total hallucination on my part), and yes--eat cake. Happy Birthday Skye! 

Decisions, Decisions

"Petting, jumping, cake! Petting, jumping, cake! Petting, jumping, cake!"

That has been Zeke's mantra for the past few days because he knows he is going to Skye & Fiona's birthday party on Saturday, where he will pet (lambs, not the other kids...although come to think of it I have no idea if there will be lambs, but I do know that the invitation implied there would be petting, and I think I saw a cartoon of a lamb on a Valentine's Day card on my counter, which must have melded in my subconscious with the upcoming petting event, and next thing I knew on the way home in the car the other night I blurted out to Zeke that he was going to get to pet lambs), jump (in a bouncy house), and eat (cake). So he's pretty excited. And I was excited too. But then today my good friend Ms. Anna Roberts sent me THIS (http://grilledcheeseinvitational.com/norcal). 

Now I have an ethical dilemma on my hands. Take my son to the birthday party I've been promoting, and that he will probably have a great time at, or re-route the Prius to the GCI (that's what the cool kids call the Grilled Cheese Invitational) so he can watch mommy go on a cheese bender in a building full of like-minded cheese freaks where in all likelihood he will be exposed to the graphic sort of cheese love that is entirely inappropriate for someone his age. Oh, I know it's wrong to think this thought, but I'm thinkin' it. I'll let you know where we end up...  

Shanti and the Jester

Look at these happy, frisky boys. Are they adorable or what? Just back from a walk to the coffee shop on Saturday morning. The weather was hideous, but we didn't feel like we could hold Zeke hostage inside the house anymore, so Shanti suited him up in last year's snow gear and took him for a puddle stomp/caffeine run while I took the dog out for a run run. We all came home soaked but happy. Warmed up with a hot bath then a trip to Pho Nan for giant bowls of hot broth, beef, and noodles. Good livin'.

But I don't want to go to the gym!

That's what Zeke says every time I tell him we're going to the YMCA together. 

I think it's because he doesn't dig the occasionally chaotic environment that is their child care facility. Sometimes there are three kids there, sometimes there are thirty. Sometimes (most of the time) he finds a nice friend to play with and is having so much fun that he has to be dragged away when I'm finished working out, sometimes he meets a big bratty bully who hogs all the toy trains. You just never know what you're gonna get. 

So this past Saturday morning we walked over to the Y, and I dropped him off at the child care center like usual. When I came back to get him an hour later, I could see through the glass that he was by himself on a trike in the outdoor play area. 

I walked in to get him, and expected the big "Mommy!" yell, and the really enthusiastic hug, because that's what I get when he hasn't had a great time (and I took it that since he was by himself he wasn't having such a great time). 

But there was no "Mommy!" There wasn't even a "Hey Mom." There was brief eye contact, and that was it. No indication that he was planning to get off the trike. 

So I walked over and stood in front of him. 

I looked down. 

He did not look up. So I kept looking down. 

"What are you doing Zeke?"

Silence.

"Zeke."

He looked up, giggled briefly, then put his head back down on the trike's handlebar.

I couldn't figure out what he was doing, but then I saw that he was actually glancing sideways--under his arm and across the playground. I followed his line of sight, and bingo...little blonde girl--also on a trike, exchanging long-distance glances with young Mr. Amagasu-Casanova. So cute. She would peek over at Zeke and he would turn away as quick as he could. Then he'd look right back over there and it was her turn to hide her face. And it wasn't once or twice. It was six, then seven, then eight times... Finally I told Zeke I was going to go to the restroom and that I'd come back for him in five minutes. Which apparently was fine with him because he didn't say a thing. 

When I came back things had cooled down. Zeke was with a bunch of other little boys, riding the trike through a row of inflatable bowling pins. And the little blonde girl was licking the plastic slide. What can you say...romance is never perfect. Not even when you're three. I do think the slide-licker made an impression on Zeke though. I was explaining to him tonight that we would be going to the gym again next weekend so Daddy could sleep in, and got absolutely no objection. :o)