California Dreaming, Part 1

There’s almost too much to recount, so I’ll shoot to hit the main highlights.

It was the first time I’d visited San Francisco, although the idea of it had been a frequent topic in my mind for many years prior. And I was sure I knew what it was all about. There were the cable cars, the insane hills, row houses (ahem, Full House intro), and Alcatraz. I knew I would love San Francisco before I had set foot in the state of California, which was back in 1993.

So when I finally arrived in early 2011, stepping onto the curb and storming to the front of the cab line, you can only imagine my anxiety and excitement to finally have arrived. And it wasn’t until the cab driver’s martial arts fight scene music was increased to a volume level so offensive other motorists on the interstate were hovering next to us with intense puzzlement, that I realized just how appropriate of an entrance I was making after all this time. It was the type of background music you’d place in a less mainstream, independent version of Kill Bill. Something similar to this.

It was my birthday weekend, and let it be known that the boyfriend did it up. As we checked into our five-star hotel room, I was greeted by a dozen roses. Exquisite dinners occupied each evening; we even received a personal tour of one of the country’s oldest breweries – Anchor Steam Brewery. We paid homage to the history and craftsmanship by drinking our fair share of the beverages the remainder of the visit.

Most notable for me, not surprisingly, was Alcatraz. Even somebody not obscenely curious in prisons and creepy dark subject matter like myself would leave this tour in awe. And, it didn’t hurt that we received yet another private tour. This time, of a quarter of the prison that tour groups haven’t been allowed for over 10 years.  We were granted access into this area thanks to an elderly volunteer named Sean, who replied to my “Sir, where is the recreation area” inquiry with a sly unhinging of a roped-off area and an invite to “see something much more interesting.” Al Capone, Robert ‘The Birdman’ Strauss and many other high profile inmates were kept in this space. And fun fact, the movie “The Rock” was filmed primarily in this less-traveled area of the prison. It really was something spectacular.

But perhaps something a bit more unexpected that proved to be a chart-topper... was Chinatown. Saturday morning, we ventured in search of the famed Chinatown markets. After being patently lost and then utterly misunderstood by a number of Chinese storekeepers, we stumbled upon Stockton Street, where all the Chinese action was. Markets lined the street with buckets of live toads waiting to be selected for dinner, live crabs squirming in clear baggies in the hands of their new proud owners, fruit and other produce so large you would think they’d been raised with some sort of steroid soil, and a vibrant and unique culture that was not at all happy to see us that morning. Was it the ninja kicks, or the “turning Japaneesa” tune implanted in my head that I continued to allow to slip out from time to time? It really didn’t matter. It was an experience all its own, equally fascinating as it was repulsive. Would I return for the Saturday morning market action? You’re damn skippy I would.

The flight home was quick, but not altogether painless; I’m still trying to get over sore muscles I didn’t know existed from all those hills. I was sad to leave the city that I had waited so long to get acquainted with, and sad to be leaving a place that had me aquainted even more with a guy who couldn’t be more wonderful.

I'm not one to promote California tourism, but I'm just saying. I will... be back. 

From No Cal to So Cal...

... the walks of life are similar, and oh so different. I'll offer a glimpse of San Fran from the happiest place on earth (duh, Alcatraz) from last weekend. And Laguna Beach (coming soon) has proven to have its own stories to tell as well.

Brace yourself for some F U N. To be continued...

Diary of a Backyard Conspiracy

I must say, I have quite the love-hate relationship with my backyard. Instead of the lush lawn the front yard boasts, this xeriscaped quarter-of-an-acre backyard is a fenced-in desert paradise boasting its own oleander, bougainvillea, agave and saguaro cacti. And just for good measure, it produces aloe vera plants because, well, it gets hot here. The likelihood of one getting a sunburn is less a likelihood and more a guarantee.

But despite the love and aspiration I have for my backyard, I'm beginning to get more and more creeped out by select findings over the course of six months.

It all started with a couple threatening magnets.

What the two refrigerator magnets "death" and "skin" were doing lodged into the earth of my backyard was beyond me. Despite my trepidation, I proceeded to make as much light of the situation as possible and took the magnets inside with me, adorning them safely to my refrigerator.

One month later, I was troubled to uncover this...


What we have here, is a murder weapon perceivably as old as the 1914 home. While this may seem ancient, don't be fooled. Tools were made much more durable in the early 1900's, and is still very much an functional axe. Note: this was discovered alongside a shovel, rake and a hoe. To me though, does it make you feel any more safe that this is even available? 


And while murder was fresh on the brain, it wasn't even a few weeks that I uncovered this casualty.

It was this point that I started to get considerably unsettled.

It had been several months after the bird massacre, and no backyard activity. Things started to seem in order again, which as in most cases, is when the "baseball" strikes.

That brings us to last week. Admittedly, a baseball isn't the most obscure item to be found in one's backyard. What should be noted, however, is the percentage of children that live in my neighborhood (zero) and the likelihood that any of my current neighbors would toss a baseball around (less than zero). Which means, we're looking at a failed attempt to break a window, a "left behind" of somebody who had trespassed over the fence and is now hiding in the crawl-space of the home, some sort of poisonous or explosive decoy, or a camera disguised as a baseball. And what are the squiggles?

I'm on my guard, people. Good thing I have an axe.

A cigarette, a beer, a bucket and a hose

It was a glorious, breezy Spring afternoon in the desert. Overnight, everything morphed into full bloom (including the unforgiving bermuda weeds in my back yard), and the temperature lingered in the mid-80's. In my peripheral, my determined roommate paced back and forth in his worn jeans, clutching his cigarette and beer in one hand, and an orange bucket full of soapy water and the garden hose in the other. Seemingly, he was determined to include his beer in his car washing festivities, and who would blame him? It's Sundays like these that you really want to make the most of them. Which, also explains the mason drink dispenser full of Lipton brew he'd carefully placed in the sunny spot of our sidewalk.

Making the most of my Sunday included taking some time to recap on my eye-opening visit from my one-year old nephew, Mr. Marcus Deacon. It was a week of firsts for me, and also a week of a learned respect I now have for a little thing called raising a child. There's a solid reason it takes two individuals to produce a child.

As I was counting down the days until his arrival, my excitement could be easily paralleled to a young child awaiting Christmas morning. I had the borrowed pack-n-play set up in the corner of my bedroom, pink stroller and car seat installed and ready to go. The rented high chair was en route. I couldn't have felt more prepared. It had been about three months since I spent time with Marcus, and given his volatile age, I knew he'd be such a different little person.

And, he was. The babbling had advanced, and his mobility was shocking. The red hair was still intact, in fact, it even seemed more radiant. But he started to develop some characteristics of a person. He smiled a lot, laughed, coughed, frowned, clutched his fists... and he slapped. And let me tell you - he knew how to properly slap.

The first night, I thought it best to alleviate my sister and take the night shift. After a few hours of blissful slumber, he awoke at midnight, wailing and choking between sobs on his congestion. Swooping him up, I warmed his milk in my best single person container - a pilsner glass - and as he fussed and fidgeted, we explored the phenomenon of pushing aside curtains and seeing what lied beyond the dark windows. When the milk was warm, he sucked it down and was asleep in an instant. This was simple, I thought.

At 4:00 am, he was up again. And the smell that burned my nose was alarming. As I lifted him from his crib to my hip, I could feel the moisture settling into my clothing, and it became suddenly clear that he'd had a serious accident. We ventured into my bathroom to access the damage, and as soon s the onesie was unbuttoned, the damage was evident. Brown liquid was crusted to his legs, lower back and entire diaper. I was hesitant to remove the barrier, but when I did, became acquainted with the exact culprit for his screams. No wonder he was so pissed. He had a blowout only comparable to some sort of nuclear explosion. With watering eyes and a search inside myself so deep I hadn't realized fathomable, I removed the diaper and began to baby-wipe the ruins. When the morsel had been attended to, we went outside together to the trash, and dropped it off, hands clean and accomplished.

We warmed some milk and attempted some shuteye. After an hour of refusal, April woke up and worked her magic. Around 5:30am, Mr. Marcus passed out in the bed with both April and I, and it wasn't until 6:00am when my alarm went off that I realized how sleep deprived I really was. As I dragged myself into work, and the knowing parents addressed my bloodshot eyes with a knowing smile, I started to acknowledge that this was really what parenting was about.

The ensuing week brought similar episodes, including near-panic attacks brought on by Marcus' mealtimes, additional "accidents" on my comforter, multiple "sprays" in the face, and one notable freak-out by my sister when I refused to change Marcus' diaper one gorgeous afternoon after a day in the sun.

A few things occurred to me from this experience: the first being how fundamentally demanding child rearing is, how selfless the job itself makes sure of, the unexpected things you see, hear and smell, prevalence of nursery rhymes you get ironed to your brain, and true lack of sleep parenting guarantees.  But mostly, despite the exhaustion, there was nothing else than this little being. He was the center of what mattered, what ever should matter, and what became undeniably clear, was the precise reason that parents endure the effort. It's worth it.

As I said goodbye at the airport, I was heartbroken. Not surprisingly, I was ready for a break, but I knew that when I got home from work that afternoon, the house would seem quiet, in order, and that I would be longing for that noise - albeit demanding some sort of attention - and feel a little bit empty without it.  

And now, I find myself counting down the days, the months until I see Marcus Deacon again. I guess that's how it goes. Being an Aunt isn't always glamourous, but it's also not a job that stops. I'm anxious for the things that come in the short term, and can't wait for those things that continue to come as my nephew and I grow together as the dynamic duo. Mr Marcus - you rock, and I plan to show you just how cool life is.