I sound AMAZING in my car

Last night I went to a rock and roll concert, stayed out too late, and witnessed my first doobie smoking in a long time. As souvenirs I have a fading "Over 21" stamp on my hand and an exhaustion headache that probably has a lot to do with drinking three glasses of the Fillmore's house white, served in plastic tumblers.

But it's all worth it because Patty Griffin was a revelation. I didn't just love her, I lerved her, which is like love, but with extra feeling and much welling up.

Here she is, singing Heavenly Day (which, by the way, should totally be your first dance song at your next wedding).

I spent most of the concert fantasizing about being able to sing. I sometimes think people who can really sing must never be sad. I've spent a lot of time thinking this about Aretha Franklin. I mean, why cry when you can belt? Of course, history does not bear out this philosophy. A lot of people who can sing are tortured and depressive and end up choking on their own vomit. So, there's that.

Still, I wish I could learn this song so I could sing it to the Mister on our upcoming 10th anniversary. Wouldn't that be cool? Wouldn't you just get all choked up? Not on vomit. In a good way.

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Next time on Up Mama's Wall : Should you have that second baby (or please join me in the exhausting chaos that is my life).

Reader, I married him

I've had a couple requests for pictures of the Mister's annual Christmas beard. So here you go, a pictorial history.

You remember where we started.

Well, we shaved.

And shaved a little more.

And in the end we decided to go with 1920s pugilist...

...which is way better than Bath House Pete, which is what we went with a few years ago.

This shirt says: "I have a healthy penis"

And there you go.

You too can kill a chicken

Right after we got our chickens the Mister met another San Francisco couple interested in raising poultry and invited them over to see our little operation. We later sold them all our chick equipment and lo and behold, they became urban chicken farmers too, complete with small blond children and a chicken chronicling blog. I like to say we started something (even the Tipsy Baker learned from us!). The Mister likes to say they are on the ride.

Then today, he gets this email:

I hope you are well! Sorry it has been a while since we checked in. Our flock of four chicks have grown into a happy little family. They are almost three months old now. They live outside in their coop and we move them around the yard in a little play pen. Here is a link to a family blog I started (but have neglected for many weeks!): http://philosophersegg.blogspot.com.

I'm writing today because one of our birds, Timmy (E. must have been prescient in her naming of the bird), has started to crow. Turns out he is a very handsome rooster. We could take him back to Half Moon Bay Feed and Fuel and they will turn him into soup. We also thought of you both.

Any chance you are interested in harvesting another bird? It is going to be a bit hard for me, as I'm quite attached to Timmy (he is really quite handsome), but I would rather he ends up in the soup pot of friends, than strangers.

If one chicken killin' experience was enough for you and you'd rather pass, I understand!

Hope you are your family are well! perhaps we can get together and swap chicken stories after the holidays.

Followers of this blog know we've entered this territory before. And while I cannot tell you how happy I am to be the go-to family for backyard chicken slaughtering, and as much as chicken and dumplings would really hit the spot right now, we're just not sure we can do this one.

Our problem is our lack of slaughter buddies (the Mister's friends are not available for throat slitting and feather pulling on such short notice and I need to be out of the house with the twins so they don't witness our gruesome bloodletting). So, wanna help? Like tomorrow? Watch THIS to see if you're man enough and then let me know. The dignity of Timmy's death lies in your hands.

P.S. The Mister wants me to add that he's no expert and that you may absolutely NOT make fun of him if he squeals like a little girl.

Bless this mess

Since I seem to like airing a certain amount of dirty laundry online, I thought I'd share with you what my house looks like after three days of single-parenting (the Mister is on a very bromantic hiking trip until 5PM today).

I used to get so irritated at my mother's poor housecleaning when I was a kid. I would mop the kitchen floor and wipe down the oven doors just to satisfy my own standards of clean (oddly, laundry didn't concern me and instead of washing my clothes, I took to dousing them in Jean Nate and going to school smelling like a molding citrus).

But now I have a little more sympathy. In order to keep this place clean, cleaning is literally ALL I would be able to do. And frankly, washing the sippy cups, and cleaning up the wooden train parts, and folding the laundry, and vacuuming up the sand, and sweeping the crumbs, and putting the books away gets old real fast.

So, here you go, a before and after. Boy, will I be happy to see the Mister (and not just for his superior dish washing skills).

The house as it is normally (or a little better than usual)

living room

Our bedroom

The bathroom

The house after three days of going it alone.

The living room

living room (with diapers)

Our bedroom (Maggie peed on the sheets 48 hours ago and I haven't changed them yet)

The bathroom (why pick up the bath toys

when you're just going to get them all out again tomorrow?

The hall (sadly, you cannot see the grime on the rug)

The kitchen (this is looking pretty good, actually.

I recycled the paper and put the oatmeal bowls in the sink)

Date night. And, he paid!

I think I’m going to blame my absence on the mountain of mini Snickers I’ve been buried under since Halloween. My goodness, but it’s easy to take candy from small children. You just put it on a high shelf and they forget about it within 12 hours. Meanwhile, you toss and turn in a frenzied lust for Kit-Kats for a full week. One of the many benefits of maturity.

There was also a visit from my dad (number 39? Check!), a massive fight about fighting with the Mister, and, um, I don’t know. One minute you’re folding five loads of laundry in front of So You Think You Can Dance and the next minute it’s Friday and you haven’t blogged in an age.

That's Oliver ringing the Hyde & Powell cable car bell. Ask him about it. He's happy to talk about it.

But I’m back.

And I want to tell you about our date night last night. We used to be really good at this. Once a month we’d schedule a day date, hire a babysitter for 8 hours, and try something fun. I read somewhere that the key to dating your spouse is not simply going out together, but trying new things, actually having interesting experiences. You know, so you can have something to talk about over the dinner table the other 29 days of the month.

We hiked a lot on our dates, once we biked around Angel Island. We went to museums, had martini-soaked lunches. It was fun. But somewhere along the way—right around the whole stop working/preschool shift—we stopped dating and started arguing and communicating via our shared Google calendar.

So last night we had our first date in a while and, because we needed some serious kindling, we decided to do something spontaneous. We went to a dance performance by a dance company we had never heard of. Just like that, we looked at the event listings and bought tickets.

I have So You Think You Can Dance to thank for the Mister’s newfound interest in performing arts. He actually says things like, “Technically it was good but there was no real feeling or connection between them.” Swear to God.

But he didn't say that about the Printz Dance Project because it turns out we really like the Printz Dance Project.

If you live around San Francisco, you should consider going to see them this weekend. Because, eh hem, something about watching all those lean bodies (and one fat one I couldn't take my eyes off) leaping and sweating, really puts you in a good mood. If you know what I mean. Wink. Wink.

The Eighth Habit

It's sort of amazing how capable the Mister is considering he keeps all his to do lists on little scraps of paper—the torn edge of a newspaper will do—that he tucks into various pockets. At any given time there are at least three of them going at once.

I just saw one of his lists (it was in the back pocket of his jeans) and one of the items says, "make moonshine." First chickens, now moonshine. We are going to start punctuating our sentences with "coot coot" pretty soon.

Me + the Taliban = one degree of separation

David Rohdes, the New York Times journalist kidnapped by the Taliban and held for more than nine months, is married to the Mister's cousin, Kristen. They had been married two months when he was captured. Oof!

We have never met him and we had no idea he had even been kidnapped until he was released (they were keeping it a secret to avoid publicity that might put him in danger).

THIS is the six-part, first-person story of what happened. Aside from the pure drama of the story, I found it to be one of the most compelling and telling stories I've read on the whole Taliban/Al-Queda/Afghanistan/Pakistan thing. It's complicated stuff. And bleak. But this made me understand it all a little bit more. And it made me thankful for good journalists.

You should read it. You'll probably cry.

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.

I go where Obama goes: a weekend away

If you've missed me, I'm sorry. We went to DC. Washington DC. Cross number 31 off this list. and let me just say, this is one great city. I sort of expected a lot of suited up blowhards, but it turns out that's only inside the Capitol Building. Otherwise, nice place.

It's Sunday. We're still recovering from last night—the Mister's 20th High School reunion. And a word of advice on that (you can thank me later): let him go to his all-boys Catholic school reunion by himself. You can watch a movie and drink vodka sodas by yourself for one night. He can drink beer in the cafeteria and talk to guys named Stevie. You will both be happier for it.

This is the man I married

More later on such topics as drink 40-year-olds at weddings, the FDR Memorial, the Newseum, Georgetown's cuteness, Obama obsession, race relations, and 20-somethings dressed like hoochie mamas. In the meantime, love from Obamaland (sigh).

Unemployment: A Love Poem

How was my writing week, you ask? Well, in a word, it was fan-freaking-tastic.

A partial list of what I got done in my five free days:

- I cleaned out the bathroom cabinet and finally threw away those humiliating Slim Shots I bought during one especially low and vulnerable trip to Wallgreens.

-I made lentil stew so that I would not waste the bone from the pork shoulder I bought to make "shot-and-a-beer" pork. Very thrifty.

-I wrote about 30 pages of fiction, which is more than I've written in the last six months.

-I threw a potluck brunch for the neighborhood collective.

-I went running (everyday).

-I submitted two short essays to Babble.

-I gracefully received two rejections from Babble.

-I accepted a freelance gig.

-I submitted a short essay to the New York Times.

-I, together with the Mister, cleaned out the garage. Trips to the dump were made. It was awesome.

-I translated some immigration paperwork for my kids' wonderful daycare teacher.

-I played with my kids

-I hung out with the Mister.

Three times this week I have paused—I'm in bed or at breakfast, maybe I'm alone in the car—and had the surprising and utterly distinct feeling of contentment. Not the absence of complaint (which, for me, would be surprising enough) but the presence of contentment. A bodily feeling of contentment.

It's weird I tell you. So weird that I do this mental scan, looking for things that might be wrong. And, nope, nothing bugs me. I'm like the Dali Lama over here. Frankly, it gives me the jitters.

I am reading the amazing and wonderful novel Olive Kitteridge right now and there is a line in which one of the characters says, "I wonder what it was that made her so distrust happiness?" and it sticks in my memory because it is the only line thus far that has rung absolutely false.

Doesn't everybody distrust happiness? Isn't that what happens when you live into adulthood? It's absolutely just a fact that happiness, like the common cold, is fleeting and reoccurring. You're up. You're down. It's just the way of the world. And I'm ok with that.

From here

What gives me the willies are the days upon days of total contentment. Nothing is wrong. I love everyone (well, except the Republican members of congress and Sarah Palin). And really, it can only be one thing: unemployment. And let me tell you, if I had had even the least inkling of how great it would be to lose my job, I would have done it a long time ago. Like this guy. He might be on to something.

On a completely different note: There is still time to enter the "guess the date of the first egg" contest (I really should have come up with a snappier name). So far, we've got nothing, so you could still get lucky.

The worry divide

I am not an overprotective parent. I believe in dirt and scrapes and bruises. I don't carry that antibacterial gel with me. I don't even carry Band-Aids. I let my kids climb alarmingly high at the playground. I let them wrestle and eat things that have fallen on the ground (and stayed there for more than 5 seconds). But I do have limits.

Yesterday the Mister and I walked to daycare together to pick up the kids. Since I used to have a commute, this has always been the Mister's provenance. He picks them up and walks them home. Which had always seemed like a good thing.

Until he says this: "I let them get out here and climb the fence." At that moment we are standing in front of a shuttered auto mechanic shop surrounded by a rusty chain-link fence topped with three rows of rusty barbed wire. Oliver jumps out of the stroller and scales the thing like a monkey until his perfect butter-like chin is resting over a rusty three-pronged barb. All that stands between him and an accident too awful even to imagine are his teensy little arms with their teensy little quivering biceps. Reader, I am horrified.

I've written before about my own accident-prone childhood, but what I may not have mentioned is that one of my worst injuries, the one that put me in an ambulance at age five, was from slipping while climbing a chain link fence and ripping open the tender inside of my elbow on the nasty, pointed top.

When I express my horror, the Mister does a little shrug like I'm just working myself into some sort of hysterical mom-frenzy, like I am completely off my chicken for thinking that the combination of sharp rusty fence and distracted toddler could possibly come to a bad end.

It's the same shrug I got when I freaked out after the Mister tried to take Oliver (who can't swim) kayaking on Tomales Bay without a life jacket. It's the shrug that says, "I'll humor you now, you raw bundle of unchecked worry, but as soon as you turn your back, me and the kids are going to ride our dirt bikes up the coast to go abalone diving with a bunch of guys I met at a halfway house."

Reader, I am worried.

To the next 41

Nine years ago, at about this time, I was sending my bridesmaids out into the garden to pick little white flowers that I had decided at the last minute I HAD to have in my hair before I walked down the aisle. They all wilted before the recessional. It was sweltering in Occidental. And perfect. Everyone we loved was there, looking stunning and shiny and positively lit up. The sun sparkled through the Redwoods, the flowers bloomed, the pond was algae-free. Even when our Filipino dental hygienist DJ from Pinole accidentally put on Kenny G., the day was not marred. I was buzzing with happiness, literally vibrating with the energy that comes from so much love and goodwill.

Around the time of our wedding, the Mister's grandmother was mourning the death of her beloved husband of more than 50 years. When I asked her what the secret to a long and happy marriage was, she said, "Oh, it gets easier. In the beginning you have all those feelings."

I'm not sure about the easier part (for better or worse, we still have all those feelings). But I do know that along with all the many, many forms that a marriage takes, it is, above all, the greatest comfort of my life. And I don't think it's possible that I could have married a better person than the Mister.

Maybe Gandhi, but he's a little austere for me.

Happy anniversary, Mister.

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.

Words plucked out of the air

some forty years ago

when I was wild with love

and torn almost in two

scatter like leaves this night

of whistling wind and rain.

It is my heart that's late,

it is my song that's flown.

Outdoors all afternoon

under a gunmetal sky

staking my garden down,

I kneeled to the crickets trilling

underfoot as if about

to burst from their crusty shells;

and like a child again

marveled to hear so clear

and brave a music pour

from such a small machine.

What makes the engine go?

Desire, desire, desire.

The longing for the dance

stirs in the buried life.

One season only,

and it's done.

So let the battered old willow

thrash against the windowpanes

and the house timbers creak.

Darling, do you remember

the man you married? Touch me,

remind me who I am.

—Stanley Kunitz

Thank you, Tilly (or how to kill your pet chicken)

First, a warning. This post is about killing a chicken. So if you are a PETA member or especially squeamish, or just totally not into things like this, I urge you to read another blog today (I really like Decorno and Petunia Face and can pretty much promise they won't write about killing stuff) and to come back later when I will get back to less bloody topics, like buying shoes and overhearing my kids saying cute things.

Still with me? Ok.

After finally coming to terms with Tilly's Y chromosome, and hearing him crow, we knew we had to get rid of him (roosters are not allowed in the city and even though some of our neighbors are jerks, we didn't want our errant chicken waking them up at 6am on a Sunday).

We had always kind of joked about slaughtering him if he turned out to be a he, but in my heart of hearts I didn't really think we were made of such stuff (we're made of stuff like carnitas burritos and blended Italian reds).

But, when we called Animal Care & Control we found out that they would just euthanize him and then throw him away. Such a waste. So undignified.

There was the possibility of finding him a nice farm were he could live out his chicken days crowing to his little heart's content. Except that we had to get rid of him that day, before another day dawned and he began his macho morning crowing again.

Plus, we sort of like the whole righteous farmer act. We like the idea of being all butch about things like chickens. We aspire to be totally 4H.

So we opted for killing him and eating him.

First, I went to the gym with the kids.

Then The Mister's two best pals Chris and Mark came over.

When I got home, two hours later, Tilly was dead and plucked and sitting in a pot in our fridge looking for all the world like something you would cook and eat.

Here's what happened while I was gone. The Mister is the one holding the video camera and tittering nervously.

How did three citified pansies know what to do? They consulted our poultry bible, The Joy of Keeping Chickens. How did they come up with that ingenious head-through-the-pot contraption? Sarah Palin's turkey pardoning videos on YouTube. She's finally good for something other than Tina Fey's career.

In the end I find it difficult to watch but ok. It seems respectful and dignified. It's still taking a life and there is something that is weird to me there. But I am a meat eater so I can't get too prissy about it.

So, what do you think? Worse than you thought? Easier? And, more importantly, could you eat him? We are having people over for pozole on Wednesday. No joke.

Our Lady of Dora the Explorer

This morning Maggie got dressed all by herself, the whole shebang, even the socks and shoes.  Oliver ran into the bathroom where I was getting out of the shower to tell me about it. “Maggie got dressed all by herself,” he said. “Isn’t that impressive?”

Um, that’s a three syllable word, people. I don’t mean to brag, but that’s impressive. Maybe it’s all those New Yorker articles we read to them before bed.

Or maybe it has something to do with the lack of TV.  They saw nary a screen flicker until they were almost three and now they watch only DVDs (including the never-ending Thomas the Tank Engine--Oh My GOD but that’s boring) and only now and then. As far as I know, they’ve never seen a commercial.

Before you think I’m some insufferable, holier-than-thou ass wipe, I just want to say that although I was mostly on board with the no-TV rule, The Mister and I had some real blow-ups over his Stalinesque adherence to our self-imposed hardship (the path to the people’s liberation is through interminable hours of PlayDough kitchen!). I mean, can’t a mother get a break once in a while?  What’s the harm in putting on 30 minutes of Dora while you grab a little shut-eye, or mix an old-fashioned?

Actually, I can answer that: the harm is in how easy it is.  I had heard about the whole TV-as-babysitter model, but until I tried it I had no idea.  I had NO idea. It’s like a miracle. The closest I’ve come to real silence in the last three years is when I put on a copy of Sesame Street’s Learning Letters. I sometimes watch as my little angles sit rapt and motionless in front of the TV and wonder why I made it so hard on myself for so long.  This whole time I could have been showering, or brushing my teeth, or even returning emails!

I can’t get that time back.  But maybe there is some consolation to be found in the fact that my kids love books and have great vocabularies and know how to catch chickens. 

Or maybe your kids grew up on a steady diet of The Bachelorette and I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant and could recite pi to its 23rd digit by age two.  Feel free to put me in my place if so.

Why it's fun to be a twin

Built-in bathtub toys...

May your weekend be this much fun. See you Monday, all squeaky clean.

xoxo Samantha

P.S. have you seen this yet? The Mister does a mean Khrushchev. That's him, banging his shoe. Weird family, I know. But at least we don't have to wear ties to work.

Potty Mouth

My kids are deep into the potty talk stage and although I've been assured that this is a completely normal part of being three, I grow weary. There is entirely too much poop in my life without having to listen to Maggie sing "My bottom came to school today, school today, school today. My vagina came to school today. Early in the morning," during bath time (complete with visual aids, thank you very much).

Between the dog, four chickens, and two mostly-potty-trained pre-schoolers it can sometimes feel as if I am always either wiping a butt or picking up a steaming pile of excrement. I suppose this is the life I signed on for, and seeing as I am fortunate enough to have indoor plumbing, a hefty supply of wipes, and a mop, I shouldn't complain. But, please, allow me to recount my day.

It started at five when Maggie woke up cocooned in a mass of urine-soaked blankets. Once that was cleaned up and she was once again ensconced in her requisite pink (we said we wouldn't, but we do), we stumbled downstairs for our Cheerios only to be greeted by our dog's diarrhea splattered across the living room floor like some Jackson Pollack masterpiece. Okaaay, we said, taking a deep breath, we've been through this before. The Mister changed into his Haz. Mat. suit (cut off sweatpants and an old stained t-shirt) and took the rug outside for a little pressure hosing.

I went to work.

Fast forward ten hours.

I arrive home with the kids (the Mister is swimming in the Bay) and upon opening the front door, am confronted with a physics problem I assure you I am incapable of figuring out. It goes like this: how can all that shit possibly have been inside that medium-sized dog?

So now we have no rug and no rug pad.

But our floors are VERY clean at the moment and I leave for Venice in 36 hours, so again, I can't complain.

Oh, and in case you are wondering, the next line is, "My penis came to school today, school today, school today." Everybody sing!

I'm an expert, but if you need help identifying who made these turds, go here.

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.