hear, hear

I came across a nice op-ed piece in the LAT today, a sort of “Dear John” letter to the state of California.
She’s right, you know.

really, truly disturbing

OK, so, I’ve been following the whole story about Henry Louis Gates being arrested for being inside his own home. It reminds me of the time, back in CA, when a neighbor called the police because my DH and another neighbor were trying to break the padlock on our garage (we’d lost the key). The cops showed up pretty quickly — we lived in a neighborhood where a daring daytime garage robbery wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility — and my DH explained the situation, and the cops said, well, OK, and went on their way. Oh, yeah — and they did NOT arrest either of them. The joys of white privilege made manifest.
But what really surprises and disturbs me? Henry Louis Gates’ nickname is “Skip.”
Really. “Skip.” Go ahead, call him Skip. There’s no way I’m going to.

mmm… pie

I’m missing Marie Callender’s right now (oh, look, they’re having their June pie sale). Chocolate meringue pie. Yes, I can make a decent chocolate pie, but not the big meringue, and I’m the only person in the family who would eat it. OK, Miss Baby would eat it, but I wouldn’t want her to.
They actually still pay the deposit on their pie tins — when I was a kid, they would collect under the stove, and we would take them in every so often and get our pie at a reduced price.
Real estate makes me want chocolate. The guy who owns our house doesn’t want to sell it. It’s a shame — I like this house, and I don’t like to move. But this is the time to do it, while there’s still the big tax credit. There are folks who are trying to expand it, but I’ve read about that, and I don’t think it’s a good idea– part of the reason I don’t trust the idea is that the congresswoman putting it forth is a Real Estate agent. Somehow it doesn’t seem so altruistic this way.
Anyway, we can’t quite do anything until August (we will qualify for better loans then), and we need to make an offer before October, because the house needs to clear before the end of the year, and that takes up to 60 days.
We are beginning to think about alternative school districts, and that gives us more options, but we’ve about decided we can’t afford the charmingly odd house we looked at nearby, unlsee they’re willing to cut their price by a good $10,000.
You can see why I need pie.

thinking of you

Hello to everyone back in CA! Happy Graduation!

i take it back

Evidently the whole economic downturn thing hasn’t turned down enough, if we’re still arguing about the Newport-Ensenada Regatta. I knew people in high school who actually skipped school for the regatta, and it’s a cute bit of Newport Beach old money amusement (gotta love those preppies). It’s certainly pretty to see all those sails make their way out of the harbor (go to the bluffs at CDM). I don’t have anything against the regatta itself; I just don’t know why people get so huffy about it.

this just in

OK, so I’m behind. Still: cue the Hallelujah Chorus! The Fed has shut down the toll road; Trestles and San Onofre state park are most likely saved!
I had a student write a paper about this subject this semester — here, in NC. Surfers everywhere care.

we’d make lousy taggers

In Costa Mesa, we have a sort of a communal art project. It’s a collection of locks, hanging on a fence on a freeway overpass. They’ve always been there; every now and then, someone, presumably the police, takes them off, but then someone, or several someones, replaces them, so the number, type, and arrangement of locks varies. Usually, it’s jsut a long line of combination and key locks. They’ve been there for years, and we’ve always said that we wanted to hang a lock, but never found the right occasion. We decided that leaving town was the right event.
We finally did tonight; when we got off the freeway and turned into the neighborhood to park, there was a CHP there with someone he’d pulled off the freeway. We drove around a little, found another spot, and got out. We were in and out, quickly. My husband was nervous, but when I was a kid, I used to walk over this overpass to get to school. so it was strangely nostalgic.
It’s blurry, but here’s proof:

new to the neighborhood

As we were walking Miss Baby to her caregiver’s this morning, the Little Guy asked me, “What kind of bird is that?” I looked up at the roof of the house we were passing, and saw a heron. Big old thing. It looked down its beak at us and stalked away over the roof.
We had a long conversation about what on earth it was doing in our neighborhood; it’s not particularly marshy hereabouts. the Little Guy opined that it was visiting friends. Sweetly typical.

hey, Peter Buffa –

We were at the pig races, and didn’t see you there!

The Little Guy and I went to the OC Fair today. My DH was supposed to join us when Miss Baby woke up from her nap, but she slept late, and my DH felt ill, so it was just me and the Little Guy. We rode rides, and even played a midway game — one of those games where you race against each other. We were the only two playing, so one of us won (it was me, but he seems fuzzy on that detail), which impressed the Little Guy. He hugged his prize lion all afternoon, and was nervous about its well-being on the the rollercoaster. He then wanted to play all of the midway games — we had enough points for him to play one more, and he popped the balloon with the dart and got a prize for Miss Baby. When we bought our ride wristbands, they gave us little cards with 10 points each for the midway games, otherwise we wouldn’t have been doing this. I tend to be skeptical about these things.

The Little Guy enjoyed taking my hand and leading me from place to place, mysteriously. “Where are we going?” “It’s a surprise!” he would tell me, pleased with himself. He led me from ride to ride, then, when he started to get tired, he led me to the animals. The roosters impressed him. I could see he was tired, so I suggested the pig races as an opportunity to relax, and he liked that. As we entered the pig racing arena, we were given Ralphs coupons for … BACON! A little memento mori to go with the entertainment.

The Little Guy was pleased to see that the rides were all lit up when we left the pig races; we rode the giant ferris wheel, ate funnel cake, and went to the bus stop. The walk home from the bus was amusing — there were a few other people out walking, or doing things in the yard, or riding a bike with a dog trotting alongside. We discussed how surprised we were that we weren’t the only people out at night. The Little Guy said, “I only expected to see you.” I told him, “I only expected to see you… and your lion…” I’m not lying!,” he said, indignant. I explained what I had actually said, and he was amused by his confusion. I referred to these people as “night owls,” and he replied, “There aren’t any owls!”

we participate in a local controversy

Well, I’ve got that Dave Alvin song stuck in my head; that’s our neighborhood, right down to the Mexican kids running up and down the sidewalk with Roman candles.

Costa Mesa is one of the few places in Orange County where fireworks are legal. It’s a big controversy in the local paper; there are some folks — ahem — Wendy Leece – who want to outlaw fireworks in Costa Mesa. I grew up here, and I enjoy the comraderie. One day a year, everyone walks to the end of their driveways and actually has a conversation with their neighbors.

The Little Guy has been edgy all day, walking around with a clock, asking how much longer until we set off fireworks. We finally took all our accoutrements out to the curb around 7:30; a little early, but already Miss Baby’s bedtime. Miss Baby cuddled a toy fishy in her stroller, and the Little Guy jumped up and down. He’d wanted a flag to wave, but we didn’t have one handy, so I pulled out some red, white, and blue ribbons and attached them to the end of a stick. The only white ribbon I could find was Christmas ribbon, with “Peace on Earth” written on it. I decided that it wasn’t inappropriate. So he waved his ribbon-stick and jumped up and down.

Miss Baby enjoyed the fireworks; she gazed at them when they went off, and shuddered and hugged her fishy closer when they whistled and crackled especially loudly. She didn’t cry or insist on being taken away; she was having a good time. When one of the illegal rockets crackled overhead, she said, “Uh-oh.” Finally, my DH persuaded the Little Guy to light one of the fountains; he was apprehensive, but decided to be brave, and was very pleased with himself afterwards.

After we finished our fireworks, we took Miss Baby home and tucked her in, and the Little Guy and I walked around the neighhborhood, enjoying everyone else’s fireworks. We did see some illegal fireworks, but for the most part, everyone was well-behaved, having a nice time. Frankly, even most of the folks with the illegal fireworks were pretty mellow; I was more worried about the kids using legal fireworks in illegal ways.

At one point, the Little Guy was overwhelmed by nostalgia and became sad. “I’m going to miss the Norfolk Island Pine,” he said, referring to his favorite tree on our street. He’s been looking forward to the move, but he’s beginning to think about the ways that he’ll miss his hometown. It’s interesting that the 4th of July is what brings this on. We’ve done the same thing every 4th for the last six years — in his mind, the fireworks and ice cream and glow sticks and Costa Mesa are all bound up together in a happy little frenzy. He’ll get that all back again, just without Costa Mesa, but he doesn’t know that now. What he doesn’t know, is that he stands to lose it if we don’t leave town; this time next year, Costa Mesa might not permit him to stand on the curb and light a fountain with his daddy, trembling with excitement.