And the time goes gently by

My husband has gone to London on unforeseen business and I'm left with the children. And my sanity, for what it's worth. And I've done my back in doing Intense Body Sculpt at the gym. And my photo-assignment was due last night and I wasn't happy with it.
My daughter is down because she's finding it hard doing the slow bridge on Lightly Row and my son is growling like a lion because everything makes him angry.

But my garden is in full bloom, we have 19 Birds of Paradise and a rose that has decided to bloom for the first time since we moved in. On Friday I'm having take-out in front of the TV with Holly and next week Finn will try something else out. Hopefully it's nice, quiet and in response to happiness.
The soundtrack to Rachel getting married is really nice.
Next week will be a good week.

It is hilarious - I love it!

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
The Stockholm Syndrome Pt. 2
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Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Jason Jones in Iran

I do miss my country sometimes. I don't care about the cold, and the snow - it's a nice place.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	M - Th 11p / 10c
The Stockholm Syndrome
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Daily Show Full Episodes Economic Crisis Political Humor

This is not really a blog post, more a whine

It is "Bring your kids to work" day at Richards work today, so he brought Holly. Not Finn, although I thought it would be a great idea, because maybe he could auction him to another family as Finn is currently getting on my nerves big time by entering the terrible two's with giant steps six months too early.

Last year, at the same event, Holly couldn't believe how she was only taken to daddy's work one day a year. Surely, with all the bouncy castles, treasure hunts, egg and spoon races and kite flying, it would be appropriate to bring her more often. After all, if that's what they do for work every day...

I need to decompress. My son is running me rugged at the moment.
If you don't see me for a few weeks, or at all ever again, it's because I've packed a bag and gone for a very long road-trip.

Yoga for the urban soul

I have a field trip at Aquatic Park with my photography class to exercise nighttime photography. The class is spread out across the boardwalk and on the pier. Our camera bags and tripods are everywhere, as are our handbags, backpacks, hooded tops and scarfs to keep us warm as the beautiful sun slowly descends on the horizon. The place is full of people enjoying the sunset and the gorgeous views of the Bay and the bridges, Marin headlands and Alcatraz. They hang out on the sand or on the grass in front of Ghirardelli's, or walk along the water holding hands or ice cream cones.
And after ten years in London, where people are fighting for elbow space and to not have their bags and purses snatched, it still doesn't fail to mystify me how easy it is to really take up that much space, as if it were rightfully ours, for so long, without interference, without trouble.
No one bothers us. No one makes any trouble or gets in our way. Everyone is incredibly respectful of what were doing, waiting patiently until they hear the beep from the cameras so as not to disrupt pictures, politely asking what we're up to.

And when I come home that night, I don't just feel that the fresh air is making it possible to breathe, but the availability of space, the feeling that you're not constantly stepping on some one else's toes, but are able to allow yourself a little extra room every now and then without being pushed and shoved in that direction and this, is making me feel like I am living in a Yoga class 24/7, and it is comforting and calming and very, very soothing.

Breakfast-line up at Citibank

With the increasingly warm weather comes tons of opportunities for me to show of my tattoo, and with that comes the occasional comment, usually complimentary, but sometimes inquisitive. As I'm dealing with some matters at the cashiers in the bank, a financial adviser in full suit by his desk tells me that the tattoo on my shoulder looks like me, and what would be the reason for imprinting an image of yourself on yourself?
- It's not me, I explain. It's Audrey Hepburn. In Breakfast at Tiffany's.
It doesn't really change the question, though, as it is as strange that someone should want an image of a movie star - however abstract the outlines might be - on one's shoulder.
- It is because it has a special meaning to me, I say.
And when he's still not satisfied:
- My daughter is named after the character.
- And what was the character's name?
- Holly. Holly Golightly.
- ....Holly Golightly. Hm.

He seems a little more at ease, as if he scored satisfactory on a test.
- Breakfast at Tiffany's, he says, as an afterthought. A very old movie.
- Uh huh.

- They never had breakfast at Tiffany's, though, did they?
- No. I guess not.
- No they didn't.

I finish my errand and walk away. We cleared up the confusion regarding the movie star on my shoulder, I'm not sure I have time to iron out all the possible question marks around the character in the movie.

Interim

So what happened to this week. One moment it's Spring Break, and we're all full of beans, and plans, and having a hard time trying to make it all fit in an orderly manner, suddenly it's Sunday night, the wine-glass is almost empty and my TO Do list is longer than it was to start with.
I think I might just ignore the fact that I have tons of things to do. Switch on the telly and watch Mistresses on BBC America instead.
Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Confused

Bank of America called me the other night urging me to take out insurance to protect me against credit-card fraud. In the current climate it seems that the only insurance I would take out would be against banks wasting away my money.

Memory trips

Some friends of mine have gone on a bit of trip down the musical memory lane, and I felt I had to catch on, but where does one begin?

Nails

No matter who you are in this city, if you are a woman the likelihood of your feet not being immaculate are slim to none. Whether you are a SAHM, or WM, or a PG or a RC for that matter or a C or just a plain NP(yeah, I know....) then your feet are buffed and varnished, and always ready for display in those flip-flops that are a staple item in any San Franciscan wardrobe (together with UGG boots and sleeveless puffa vest).
With a nail bar on almost every corner and pedicures being a snip at $12 or up, it is hard to go wrong. It also has an important social aspect since women meet for a catch-up over a pedi as much as they do for brunch or over coffee. Throw in a mani as well, and you're pretty much ready for a night on the town.
I didn't really discover pedicures until I moved here. Back in London they were expensive and eating out a significant chunk of my day, whereas here, I can squeeze one in in half an hour on my way to somewhere else.
And this is such a girlie thing to say, but a little bit of pampering is such an easy way to make yourself feel better.

Orson does good mussels, but not a great paella.

We grab a cab from Soma to Cole Valley after dinner and a few drinks. The cab-driver is young, kind of cute, friendly, with an accent, so of course I have to ask him where he's from, and he replies: "Brazil".
Feeling chatty and generally inquisitive I go in to small-talk mode and ask him how long he's been in SF for, to which he replies: "7 years".
- Do you like it here?
-Are you gonna do the 6 standard questions, when did you get here, what did you think, blablabla? Always the same. Never any change. Everyone always want to know how long I've been here for.
Having had enough wine to not make me feel snubbed, I just laugh.
- It is the American way to make small-talk, my friend (who is American), explains, even her in a good and jolly Friday evening mood. Americans are shy but polite, and want to be friendly and-

By now I her the faint murmur of undefined noise coming from the driver's seat.
- I think he stopped listening, I giggle and peak over the head-rest.
He's put his headphones on and is driving up Geary to the beat of bad techno-pop, leaving us to decide whether it's OK no to tip him at the end of the journey.

Happy Easter

My seven-year old daughter is in love with her godmother's older brother. Not silly child-adoration but deep, heartfelt, butterfly-in-stomach, territorial ownership in a sweet but also 'he's mine' kind of in love.

No one can blame her. He's tall, has a shaved head and un-shaved chin, he's an artist, good at picking birthday-gifts (although I think godmother has something to do with that) and crap at hide and seek. It can't get better. At Christmas when the godmother rang the doorbell with three bags full of gifts and a huge box with pastries, she was greeted by an impatient munchkin pushing her out of the way demanding:
- Where is Adam?

Today, I inform her that they are both coming for an impromptu Easter dinner, a last minute decision since no one was going to celebrate but everyone felt like doing something and she let's out a deep sigh.
- Good. This will be a better Easter than last year. Last year was just eggs. This year it's eggs - and Adam.

Cat

The neighbor's cat died peacefully and quietly on Monday. He was 21 years old.
What an amazing life he must have had.

Parking in Hayes Valley can be a tricky thing

We decide to park the car in one of those hideously expensive parking lots in Hayes Valley as we're going to lunch and while we're unloading the stroller a man, looking worse for wear to say the least, approaches us with some loose tickets. He says something that sounds like "$10, make sure you put the ticket on the dashboard."

Parking is indeed $10, but he doesn't strike me as you're average parking attendant. For a starter, he's not dressed in attendant's suit. He's clothes barely hold together by the seems. The tickets also doesn't look anything like parking tickets, more like pink raffle tickets that kids raising money for a school-trip try to sell you.
We both know that we should just go up and pay at the parking-machine. We know this. It is so obvious that there is no other way about it. Yet we both reach for our wallets to see who can get the money out first. A we pay for that make-shift parking ticket. The man says something that sounds like "thank you" and walks away.

The girl in the car next to us just laughs and shakes her head. The owner of the coffee-shop across the road shouts to us that we were just scammed. As we walk out, we see a note on the machine saying: "Do not pay impostors. Only pay at machine."

We shrug our shoulders and say: "OK. We saw that one coming."
But if we know full well that we are being taken for a ride, why do we still do it?
I have no idea. Maybe it's some strange need in us to think the best of people. Maybe it's because we don't want to risk offending someone. Maybe we feel that the man without teeth and clean clothes could do with the money more than the owners of the ridiculously over-prized parking lot.
Whatever it is, the man came from nowhere, and he then disappeared back in to nowhere, $10 richer.

My Guru

I have an appointment with my Guru, Dr Francis, who will perform acupuncture for my sinuses and shoulder pain.
After six months of intensive detoxing supported by a pharmacy of natural remedies and supplements I have finally managed rid my body of the parasite and yeast that was attacking my immune and digestive system, and all thanks to the help of my Guru who, with a very stern voice told me that what she found in my test results was beyond unbelievable.
Dr Francis is a no-nonsense woman. She'll tell it like it is, whether you want to hear it or not.
- You might not think there is anything wrong with you, she said the first time I met her. But you're depressed. And it will only get worse.
She is the kind of strict mother you really badly wanted to get on the right side of as you grew up. You really want her to be pleased with you. So detoxing and supplements has taken over my life in a big way.

Today, as she pierces me with needles in the forehead and earlobes and as she puts her hands on my cheeks to get rid of the last bit of tension she says:
- You're so pretty. You really have transformed.

I feel like jumping up with joy!
Dr Francis is happy with me!
Dr Francis thinks I'm pretty.
It was definitely all worth it!

Another weekend, another project

I am taking this photography course that seem to absorb me right now. I'm having Holly perform the most outrageous little skits for me so that I can snap pictures. Having her pretend to sleep on the green rug with daffodils in her hand, and pretend to be a mad person looking at her own reflexion in the bathroom mirror. At first she's loving the attention, the fact that we are doing something together, just the two of us. But soon she's bored and beginning to complain.
- Come on, just a few more pictures, please. I'll buy you all the Rainbow Magic books you could ever read.
I keep bribing away, turning myself in to a horrible excuse for a mother. Finally, she just says plain 'No'. No, no more pictures. Am not doing it. Won't.

- I won't make you tidy up your room for a week.

She turns around.
- Really? A whole week?
- Mm.
- Done.

So there you go. I can sink pretty low if I have to.