Random Observations on DC

I promised a little more about DC, so here it goes, random observations.

1. The Newseum makes most other museums feel pretty Podunk. It's pretty much six floors of awesomeness, especially if you are sort of a First Amendment junkie, uber-nerd (my favorite kind of people). The Pulitzer Prize photography room alone is worth the pricey admission. But bring your hankie because no one wins a Pulitzer for taking pictures of healthy, well-adjusted children feeling joyful.

Photo from here.

2. DC is a very black city (54.4%). San Francisco is not (6.5%). In DC, white people and black people are together a lot, doing business, hanging out, going to school, conversing. In San Francisco, they are not. In DC there are black people across the socioeconomic spectrum (hello, Mr. President). In San Francisco there are also middle class African Americans, but the majority of black San Franciscans live in poorer, marginalized neighborhoods. I guess what I am trying to say is that race relations felt much more relaxed in DC than in supposedly super-liberal, groovy SF. Here, it feels like a bunch of stiff white people trying to be PC about the black people they don't actually know. There, it just felt like a completely natural mix of people doing their thing. Which is what my dad always said about Southern cities: that despite a reputation for and history of racism, there was actually a lot more regular, day-to-day interaction between races. And that completes my portion of the national conversation on race. Now watch this mazing video.

3. In DC it seemed as if there was a larger percentage of young women who dressed as if they were on Gossip Girls. They were all so blond and shiny and barely clad and slutty looking. We saw lots of Daisy Dukes and stilettos. Where, I ask you, were the dowdy policy wonks in sweater sets? I know, I'm so totally old and prudish now.

Road Trip!

We've been talking up our family road trip to Avila Beach to the kids for a while.  Today, after about 4 hours on Hwy. 101 Oliver asked, "does road tip mean I have to sit in my car seat all day?" Well, yes actually, it does.  But it also means junk food, sing alongs, you-touched-my-toy fights, and:

Funny face contests (competing against me is useless).

Trains that last forever.

The relief at finally arriving.

And, in our case, a little hula-hooping to rid ourselves of the road.

Today is the Mister's birthday—38 and he's still got it

A thing I like

Our guesthouse.  If you ever find yourself in San Luis Obispo and you are a sucker for great style, huge bathtubs, and a TV-free evening every once in a while, this is your place. I walked into what I thought was the lobby (what is, actually, the lobby) and it was a painting studio.  And there's our host, wiping paint off her hands to hand us the key. Plus the beds are amazing.  The Mister is snoring right next to me as I write just to prove it.

  

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.

The good life

This is getting embarrassing and I'm sure my pinko grandparents would not approve, but my little  family is sure getting used to the good life (probably good to get while the gettin' is still good).  

This past weekend we spent a lovely 24 hours up at the lovely Stinson Beach with our lovely friends from England and their lovely son, born on the same day as the twins.  

For like the fourth time in as many weeks we partied like members of the chattering class in good standing—with wine and cheese and these outrageously tasty little Gorgonzola crackers from Trader Joe's. The weather was, as my friend Hilary likes to say, "absurdo" and the view was beautiful.  All of it was just too, too pleasant. Pleasant enough for me to feel the fuzzy outline of guilt (again, with the Commie grandparents whispering "softie" into my ear).  

So what if the economy is crumbling around us?  So what if we are at war?  Nothing beats an afternoon of crab fishing with your two-year-olds off the edge of your private dock, glass of wine by your side.  

So what if I'm toast when the revolution comes?

Oliver checks out a crab we caught with my ingenious

plastic-citrus-bag-and-raw-hamburger invention

This picture is all the husband's fault, but those are the $100 jeans