How we finally decided not to get cable

Last Friday night my BFF Sarah and her second-grader Georgia had a sleepover at our house with Maggie and Oliver. It was an all-out preschool rager complete with banned movies and copious amount of hitherto forbidden foods. Something called "fruit gushers" was smuggled in. Rice Crispy treats were introduced. There was—I can barely stand to say it—morning television. Needless to say, the kids were in the sort of Heaven where you float around on clouds of cotton candy and big girls give you their undivided attention. The kind of Heaven dreamed up by three-year-olds.

Fruit Gushers. Some consider them food.

But what this story is really about is the Mister's and my night away. We couldn't go far in our precious 17 hours, so we Pricelined a San Francisco hotel and hoofed it over to the financial district Hilton. I know, it doesn't sound that great.

Like me, you may be picturing balding businessmen overeating at the complimentary breakfast buffet, possibly an irritable family from Des Moine on some extended and unhappy vacation. You might, like me, be so worried about the business grimness of it that you might, like me, lie to the man at the check-in counter about it being your anniversary. You might shamelessly ask for and receive an upgrade and then you might get this view:

And when you got this view you might start to realize that this was going to be a good night, even if neither of you had bothered with dinner reservations or negligee of any kind (and how I love the Mister in his negligee). Because, really, it's hard to have a bad night when you're in North Beach playing "when we move here," and then you stumble upon the cutest bar in the world and have the adult version of a fruit gusher, only better. And then another.

Go here and order a Pim's Cup. You won't be sorry.

When the extremely friendly Syrian cab driver talks to you about how much money Jennifer Aniston makes you really know its a good night. And then, when you get into this surprisingly delish restaurant even though you have no reservation of any kind and you eat meatballs and cold cuts made from duck, well, this pretty much tops it off. It's one hell of a date night. It's perfect.

Until you get back to the room, where you are very much looking forward to indulging in a little cable TV and eating the dessert you ordered to go.

The Mister won't pay $15.99 to watch The Blind Side on pay per view (and I can't blame him) so we decide to do a little channel surfing in the land of a thousand shows. And guess what? There is nothing on. We spend, nay, waste, and hour flipping between E! Twenty Top Celebrity Body Part, MTV's Spring Break and HBO, where they are showing the Best of YouTube. Not only is it bad entertainment, but what it says about our culture is so grim, I begin to regret bringing children into the world. People pay a lot of money to access the Twenty Top Celebrity Body Parts. This makes me want to eat fruit gushers until I explode.

The bright side is that we were just about to break down and finally get cable. And now we don't have to.

And now, for something completely different, a kid story that's not about one of my kids, but about one of the kids of one of my friends. It goes like this.

Three-year-old kid is in the bathroom with mom while she's changing a tampon.

Kid

Mom, when I get a vagina can I have tampons?

Mom

You already have a vagina, but when you get your period you can have tampons.

Kid

Do you think I can have Hello Kitty tampons?

And that's really it for the week. See you in approximately seven days.

Leonard Cohen would never Twitter

I have told my writing students many times that beginning a piece of writing with the words, "I don't know what to say," is, to say the least, lame and lazy.  But, um, I don't know what to say about Leonard Cohen.  I don't like to read about music and I've already documented my own history with music bullies, so let me just borrow some wise words from the Mister and say, Leonard Cohen means that shit. I got to see him in concert last night and he was just so commanding and funny and human and spry and vulnerable and dapper and humble.  And the lyrics.  Oh, the lyrics. 

What I kept thinking as he would fall to his knees in his natty gray suit and sing to the floor (nay, plead to the floor) was, this is exactly why I hate Twitter.  On the spectrum of human expression, Leonard Cohen and Twitter fall on opposite ends.  And I chose Leonard.

Click here and watch and you might choose him too.

And by all means, feel free to try to convince me that Twitter is great.  It's not going to work, but I am interested in the argument. 

A thing I like

This cartoon found on, yes, Twitter, (click to se a bigger image) 

and sent to me by my dear friend H. 

A decade of love. Oh, and go VOTE!

Smart dogs vote for Obama

I have never done anything for ten years.  I've never lived in any one house that long, or had a job that long, or been at a school that long, or worked on a project that long.  Until today. On November 4, 1998 me and the Mister went on our first date.  There was broiled salmon at Lulu, Irish whiskey at the long-gone Irish bar around the corner from my old apartment.  And there were the inevitable and numerous cups of tea while we sat on the futon couch waiting to see if we might kiss.  We did.

So now I've been in love for a decade.  Not always googly-eyed or palpitating, but always, always grateful.  

Happy anniversary, Mister

The sweetness I feel on this day is matched only by the immense excitement I feel about the election.  I am jumping out of my skin!  So, if you haven't already, please go vote.  Make me happy.  See you at the party, America.  Woo hoo!

Oh, and this is so great.  Funny.  Funny.  Funny. I will miss the election humor.