CityMama™

SMILES EVERYONE, SMILES

I wasn't going to write about this because I am tired of writing about, ranting about, thinking about the differences between San Francisco and Portland, but today I need to get something off my chest. Please bear with me while I process.

Yesterday I met Twizzle of Baboon of Magnesia for hot caffeinated beverages. She is a Seoul sister in the blogosphere. There aren't that many half-Korean women with quarter-Korean kids that I come into contact with, so when she invited me to meet her, I jumped at the opportunity. She is sweet and stylish, and our kids look alike (weird). I had a great time chit-chatting with her and joking about being "Korean" like only Koreans can. (Yes, there was a small fight over the bill. I won.)

Twizz lives near a very trendy shopping area in the Oakland/Berkeley area, but it's a teense more mellow than similar areas in San Francisco. As Bunny and I were heading back to our car, we passed a flower shop. Bunny loves to smell flowers and they had a large fountain-y bowl thing filled with bashed gardenias that had seen better days that I thought Bunny would like to smell.

It had no sign on it, no prices, and so I thought it was a display. After all, having grown up in Hawaii, I know how delicate gardenias are and how the slightest touch can turn them brown. And having been a semi-regular flower shop patron for much of my adult life, I also know that gardenias for sale shouldn't be slopped into a bowl of water where the exposure to the air and the water can quickly to turn them into compost.

I was wrong.

Bunny leaned over the gardenia and took a smell. To help her, I carefully reached UNDER the flower to avoid touching the petals to bring one closer to her nose. Then I hear from out of nowhere I hear, "PLEASE. DON'T. TOUCH. THE. FLOWERS.," apparently coming from Queen Condescendia. "It turns them brown," was the follow-up.

Because she spoke to me like I was five and because I have a big mouth, I snarkily muttered, "Well, they're all brown anyway."  "That's because people keep touching them," FlowerBitch scoffed as if my tiny pea of a brain couldn't possibly understand why. I am sorry that I touched if I shouldn't have. Maybe I should learn not to be so presumptuous, but I am a toucher when I shop. I can't help it. I'm a smeller, too.

Here's a little tip for the assholes who own the flowershop near 63rd and College in Rockridge:

Put a sign on your precious gardenias if you don't want people to touch them. I realize that you think it is shabby-bohemian or whatever to have your gardenias-for-purchase displayed in a bowl as if they are an afterthought in your establishment, but you really should be storing them under refrigeration.

Oh, and another tip: displaying mums front and center in your flower shop makes people think you're cheap and have crap flowers in your shop. I realize yesterday was a holiday, but someone should have been planning inventory better.

This is the thing. I'd like to believe that that wouldn't happen in Portland. In Portland, I've had flower shop employees hand flowers to my kids. And not the cheap ones, either. We'd go to shops and there would be a basket of toys for children to play with while Mamma shopped. People are nice there.

Here people expect to be abused by retail and service employees. We tolerate it as if it is normal. It's not. I miss standing around at the coffee shop shooting the shit with the people who worked there. I miss the smiles from people who are mailing your letters or bagging your groceries or taking your order.

I feel like writing a letter to Mayor Hottie asking him to institute a citywide "Be nice to your customers" policy. I have decided that I am not going to patronize any business where employees are rude to me. I wonder if there will be anyplace left to shop in San Francisco? This city would be so much better if people were nicer.

COMMENT COMMENTARY

I've been thinking about all the comments I received since I bribed you to delurk for a good cause. I had no idea that you read CityMama from so many different places! Most of the readers live in Portland (represent!) which is so cool.  And Christine, who outted me at the Hollywood Farmer's Market ("Are you CityMama?") finally delurked and introduced herself!  (Hooray!)

To the commenters reading from the Netherlands, the U.K., Switzerland, Canada, and other countries outside the United States I'd like to say a special thank you for reading the adventures of a thirty-something American mama and her kids.  I'd also like to say that I voted for the other guy in our most recent elections.

Tiff said that she found my "blob," by accident, and while I am sure that it was just a slip of the fingers, perhaps she is not that far off...

Keira, my new favorite commenter, says that she had no kids yet, but that, I give her "faith that if i ever do have kids, it is possible to be a mom and be cool!"  Oh, Keira. I am so not cool. I'm 36 and just spent the weekend downloading Bruce Springsteen songs. That should tell you something. 

Keira says she works in an unfulfilling office job and that she is "incredibly jealous of (my) stay at home life." Stay-at-home-parents, you're all smiling, right? 

Keira—what I wouldn't give to work an unfulfilling office job some days. I love my kids dearly, but I miss coffee breaks and lunches out and even counting down to 5:00PM (4:30PM on Fridays) when I knew I could quit my job until the next day. A parent's "job" never ends, so enjoy the boredom while you can!

Again, thank you for reading: Mechanicsburg, PA; Baltimore (hon'); Louisville, KY; New Haven, CT; Ohio; Hotlanta; Michigan; Houston, TX; Salt Lake City, UT; Santa Barbara, CA; Spokane, WA; and everyone in between and elsewhere. And thank you for linking your blogs!  I've been reading through them and commenting.

Your comments make my day everyday.

BRUUUUUUUCE

I spent two hours today listening to and downloading Bruce Springsteen songs. I have never been a Bruce fan. Number one: I'm about 10 years too young (and I ain't that young) to be his original target market, and number two: I'm just not much a "rock" fan. I generally don't like music with a whole lotta guitar. And there's probably nothing that makes me cringe more than a sax solo. 'Cept maybe a fiddle solo.

I kinda hated Bruce in the 90's when he ditched his model wife Julianne whatserface for his back-up singer Patti Scialfa. But I guess he figured out he wasn't Axl or Rod and decided to stay true to his roots. They'd been getting it on for awhile so I guess true love wins. Who could fault him for that? And I'm no music expert, but does anyone else agree that the entire Born in the USA album should be destroyed? God, I hate it.

But I heard him NPR recently and damn, if the dude ain't sexxxy. Yeah, I'd like to see why they call him the Boss, alright. (/joke, people.)

I feel like I'm in 6th grade.

FEELING LIKE A SHITHEEL

[expanding on a post I did for Blogging Baby because, well, I just had more to say on the subject.]

A couple days ago I took Bunny to the doctor for her preschool check up. She loves going to the doctor because she get to be the star of the show. All eyes are on her. She gets a kick out of telling the doctor what an otoscope is and showing him how to use a stethoscope. She counted all of his fingers carefully (like I taught her to do, "touch and count"), and he was pleased. She named colors and shapes. She drew him a happy face and told him it was her. She stood on one foot like a flamingo. 

"Great, Bunny!" said Dr. K., "Now it's time for your shots." Bunny, of course, got all excited at the prospect of getting even more attention showered upon her. "I play shots at home with my doctor kit, Dr. K.!"

I cringed. She had no idea what was coming. Play shots are not like real ones. We play doctor all the time. She holds up the toy shot and pretends to give me a shot, "Psssshhhhttt." Usually, I don't react much, and then I say, "Thanks for the shot, Dr. Bunny."

I suddenly realized that I hadn't adequately prepared her. I should have fake-cried during our play and let her make me feel better. Let her give me a bandage. Let her kiss my pretend boo-boo, and showed her how shots hurt for a minute, but then kisses make it better.

What Bunny doesn't really understand yet is that she was a NICU baby for the first 4 days of her life. I have watched her being poked and prodded more times than I care to count. I have stood by as doctors cut her tiny toes and squeezed them to draw blood. If there was anything I could do to make the poking and proding stop, I would do it. But I didn't this time.

I felt like the most terrible mother in the world.I had to hold Bun tightly on my lap while the nurse administered the first shot. Bunny didn't cry at first, but then 3.6 seconds later she was shrieking inconsolably. The look on her face was nothing short of "how could you let someone hurt me like this, mamma?" It was puzzlement and shock and worry and pain all at the same time. I had to hold her even tighter for the second and third shots, and she didn't calm down for 10 full minutes. Not even with the promise of ice cream. She stopped crying while we walked to the car, but once we were in the car and she could see her band-aid, she would start crying all over again.

Bunny doesn't like band-aids. Never used them as stickers or anything like that. When she has an owie she doesn't want anyone to talk about it or look at it. She doesn't want us fawning all over her to make her feel better. She dreads baths when she has a cut because she literally and figuratively doesn't want to be so naked and exposed.

She had preschool later that day so I dropped her off telling a teacher about her ordeal and just to keep an eye on her. When I picked her up, she was her normal self. The shots had been forgotten. We made it through the rest of the day without any more shot-talk. Until...bathtime. Bunny was upset as she got into the bath.  She keep glancing at her Snoopy bandage on her arm.  She was trying hard not to get it wet. Wallie was also very interested in the Snoopy bandage, and, in a moment when Bunny was not paying attention to it, Wallie reached over, and ripped it clean off.  Ffffffttttt.

Silence.

I looked at Bunny. Then Wallie. Wallie was turning the band-aid over and over in her hands. Bunny looked at her arm, saw that there wasn't any trace of her shots, and plucked the soggy band-aid away from Wallie. She looked up at me and said, "Here mamma. Can you frow this away?" Splashing resumed and I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. She's fine now, but I don't think she's enamored with going to the doctor anymore.

ROCK THE VOTE

The voting is open for the Best of Blog awards. I just impregnated some chads for my favorites: Dad Centric (best dad blog), Morphing Into Mama (best mom blog), and Sweet Juniper (best new blog). You got a fave? Well, then click on over and vote, won't you?

THANK YOU FOR COMMENTING

Wow. 87 comments! It's a record. I really appreciate that you delurked to share a little of yourselves with me. I read through each and every one of your comments and had a lot of fun doing it. I can't believe how many of you have children similar in age to mine. And I can't believe how many Portlanders are out there! (Will one of you or all of you please go to Criollo Bakery and eat a danish for me?)  I will address some individual comments and questions in another post because I found them so interesting.

Mamaloo wrote recently about how much comments mean to a blogger. I love knowing that you understand what I am going through. I love hearing your stories. I appreciate and thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to share your words.

I tallied up everyone's comments and together we raised $43.50 for Dutch and Wood's charity. Let's round it up to an even $50.00. I will hand them a check the next time I see them.

Thank you blog friends.

DE-LURK FOR CHARITY

Taking a cue from my pals over at Sweet Juniper and because it is International Blog Comment/De-lurk Week, I want to know who you are! Do you read but never comment? Let me try to pursuade you. Dutch and Wood at Sweet Juniper are offering to donate money to a very worthy charity for every de-lurker they can collect: $1 per comment and $2 for those containing a name (first or screen is fine) and city. I'm not made of money like Mr. and Ms. Juniper apparently are (and, doods: we're trying to buy a house here), so I'll offer up a shiny quarter for every comment and fittycent for including a name and city. I will donate all the proceeds to their scholarship fund.

Who are you, friend?

Please comment here...and also there! In fact, I want you all to go over to Sweet Juniper and de-lurk right. now. Tell 'em CityMama sent you. We're all going out for sushi tomorrow night and I'd like to see them eating nothing but a bowl of rice and water while we snarf down big, fat pieces of toro. De-lurk blog friends! Regulars can comment, too. You have 24 hours starting now. I have a mayonnaise jar that needs emptying! At 6:30PM PST (my time) tomorrow this contest will be history.

P.S. While you're at it, hop over over to the Best of Blogs site and vote for Sweet Juniper for "Best New Blog."  'Mama couldn't be more proud! /wipes tears away...

FIRST MACROBIOLOGY LESSON

A conversation with Bunny:

Mammaaaaaaa! Come! Quick!
What is it?
There's corn in my poop!!! ...Look!
Yes, there is! Do you know why? Because you ate it and your body used its vitamins and whatever you don't need your body poops out. That's what poop is.
No kidding! (her new favorite expression)

Later:

Mamma?
Yes.
I eat corn, and then it comes out of my butt.
That's right, Bunny.

IT'S LIKE ONLINE DATING FOR MOMS

Okay, enough with the ranting already. Today was a good day. I stuck around my neighborhood and I didn't feel snarky at all. Not even once. The girls and I joined up with some amazing mothers that I have never met before, but that I feel like I know. I always joke that I will meet anyone who emails me for coffee because if a mom (they're always moms) works up the nerve to send an email to a stranger asking her out to coffee, then I'm going. It's weird how once you have kids you actively seek out the company of other mothers because, let's face it, mothers understand all.

But the women I met today are people that I have known forever from an online parenting forum that we frequent. We have joked together, laughed together, supported each other, disagreed with each other. We've shared pregnancies together. Our kids have grown up together in a sense. And today, a bunch of us finally met. And even though we didn't get to talk much because our kids split on us and we spent the entire time chasing after them, it was good. Everyone is exactly how I imagined they would be.

So no more snark for the moment. This will make J. happy since he hates snark, especially in blog form. (Or maybe it's just that he hates my snark.) The sun was shining today.

AM I HAPPY TO BE BACK? I DON'T KNOW.

People keep asking me, "Are you happy you're back in San Francisco?"  Honestly? I have no idea.  I say, "Yes and no," because it's true. In some ways, it is good to be back. It's  nice to see old friends. It's nice to be in familiar surroundings. It's nice, it's nice, it's so very nice.

But I really miss Portland. I miss our house. I miss our furnishings. I miss my bed. I miss our friends. I miss how things are easy there. I miss green. I miss not having to pay for parking. I miss the adundance of parking. I miss the relaxed vibe and no pretense. I know I blogged before about how everyone here pushes Bugaboos, but seriously. Never saw one in Portland. Here? Lots. And even though people I know and love own that frickin' stroller, I can't help it. I roll my eyes every time I see one. Instead of a logo, it should just have a big "$800" painted on the hood.

Here people look so cookie cutter. If you are a woman and you work downtown, you wear the same  short car coat, black pants, and ballet flats (or wedge boots) as everyone else. You carry the same lady laptop bag. You wear the same small-framed glasses. (Unless you are my friend Bad Kitty. Then you stay true to your goth roots by wearing pointy shoes, black nail polish, and a poison ring even though you are a VP at a bank.)

If you are a mom, at least in this nabe, you must rock the side-parted, smooth-hair, low-ponytail. (This to show off your diamond studs.) You must look like you either came from or are on your way to the gym. Your sweats match, and for warmth you wear a quilted Burberry barn coat (black or orange) or a North Face vest (white). You push your stroller while talking on your cell phone. You sip your Voss water. You do. not. deviate. from. the. norm. Ever.

San Francisco totally brings out the snark in me. And I don't like that. J. and I can sit in a corner and giggle for hours about the fashion cliches that you see every day in this town. I miss how people in Portland just wear whatever. And don't give a fuck. I miss originality and weirdness. And bars that know how to make a whisky sour. (No neon "sour mix" you bartending numbnuts: that upsets my stomach and tastes like shit. Please squeeze some fresh citrus for me and drop an orange slice into my drink along with the cherry.) 

But I love being able to pump my own gas. And there is nothing like the produce here, where you can find everything from fava beans to gai lan within a 2 block radius.

So am I happy to be back? I don't know. And I wish people would stop asking.