Grateful

How many ways can we give thanks today, friends? C'mon,  let's do it, let's count them.

Just doing the Ye Olde Cabi dress and Ye Really Olde $30 Payless boots, as per Pilgrims

1. Thanks that I live in Oakland, a town of true individuals, where Birds of Paradise bloom on 28th of November.

Our front porch today

2. Thanks for that rainy day in London 18 years ago when I put my two black rubbish bags of clothes behind a friend's couch and said: "I'll just be here a couple of nights until I find a new flat." Reader, I never moved out.

World's best flatmate brines the old bird. 

3. Thanks that friends David and Sean were finally able to marry after 25 years together.

David and Sean's wedding cake. Wee figures look exactly like them

4. Thanks for kids who are who they are. Cy, nine, likes nothing more than to slip on a bow tie. But he also insists on cycling to tennis along a dangerous main road: "I love to feel the air in my face and think about my dreams" he told me today.

Cy, nine. Photo by Lara

5. Thanks for friends Kenny'n'Mike who never fail to amuse the bouche.

Kenny and Mike bookend the fam

6. And finally I give thanks to you, all of you, for reading and for commenting. There is no doubt in my mind that your comments are the best thing about this blog. How many times have I heard from people: "Oh I always read the comments first, they crack me up." You guys are Tawesome.

Now your turn - what are you giving thanks for today?

Seekers and Eaters

Occurred to me that I set up this blog intending to  bore entertain you every Monday about my weekend. One day late but I promise something for everyone: pirates, Greek philosophy, chicken livers and succulents. Succulents are totally aweseome, or Tawesome as Tallulah would say, the perfect example of Stoicism, which is being observed (presumably in a reserved and unemotional way) in Britain this week, according to the Telegraph.

Our succulents being stoic and allowing the banana leaves to be Grand Poobahs of  the deck

More stoicism on the other side of the deck

Our succulents emerged unscathed by the recent storms. They accept what they can't change and work on what they can; they chlorophylise while the sun shines and water is plentiful and are lovable while allowing the Grand Poohbahs of the deck - the banana leaves - to be the star of the show. I aim to be more like Stoic succulents.

In our pursuit of Stoicism - basically 3rd century don't sweat the small stuff - Kevin and I decided to outsource Thanksgiving sides for 18 this year, with Kevin doing the turkey. Love the idea of cooking - don't we all dream of amuse-ing the bouche out of our guests? -  but not the actuality. Maybe onedaywhenthekidsaregone. I ordered the basic holiday dinner; I know some people like to fiddle around with the ingredients but I say Classic bird, mashed spuds, gravy and brussels are perfect, why try and Rococo them?

We are doing a total redux of last year, including - stoicism and parsimony: zut alors! - I will also be wearing the same frock.  We just heard Kevin's parents won't make it out of Pennsylvania because of weather so it will be a demi-redux, will miss them.

Tried to persuade Kevin not to do the Ashtanga-practising Camus-reading organic bird from Petaluma who antiques on Saturday morning (so dry last year). My hairdresser Karen (aka Font of All Knowledge) says get a cheap water-filled one from Safeway. Covert conversations have let me to believe Kevin has not taken my advise and am being Stoic in my acceptance of his (flawed) decision.

Kevin and Jackson lost a bet to a Detroit Tigers friend and had to wear orange stuff around all day Saturday. They told me the whole story but I let it release from my memory so I have room for thinking about Jennifer Aniston and how she's aged suddenly in her last movie We're The Millers but I like it. Maybe she will find more challenging roles and not slip into a Meg Ryan-sized hole.

Kevin and Jackson being humiliated by their Detroit Tigers friend

On Saturday night Kevin and I had dinner at Bay Wolf and I had the chicken livers with arugula and bacon. Love everything innards, is that my Manchester heritage? Thoughts from Mancunians?

Storms heralded goodbye to this top, thrashed over the summer

Afterwards we saw Captain Phillips, a true story starring Tom Hanks as a merchant seaman who is held hostage by pirates off the coast of Somalia. Intense movie, bizarre to watch hundreds of millions of American defence money being spent on rescuing Tom from four poor Somali fisherman-turned-pirates high on Khat. Very sad all around.

Intriguing how the Navy Seal negotiator took over. Plus he was a little bit handsome. He established authority and control: "Ship to lifeboat, this is your Negotiator" then gave the pirates their due: "Is this the Captain? Are you authorised to negotiate on behalf of the others? Negotiator Out." Or something like that.

We've been trying for years to get Cy, nine, to make his own lunch. The other kids have been making their own lunch since they were six or seven. "Sorry, no can do, Mama" is his answer "Not in my schedule." Eventually after some nagging, he started tossing random stuff from the fridge into a bag: one time it was a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Friday, he took a bag of 20 little oranges for his lunch.

Cy and Tallulah off to school. Cy carrying his 20 little oranges for lunch. 

Good as it gets. Negotiator out.

The Sweet Goodbye

My hometown, Ohope Beach, at nightfall via

Last week I went to the funeral of a 96 year-old-gentleman and I use that term in it's fullest sense. I never met him, he was the grandfather of a friend of mine. A true gentle man, he was a devoted father, husband, community leader and carpenter. He loved his cakes and sweet treats.

As an African American child from a poor family, his first job was picking cotton in Tallulah, Louisiana which he did for many years and the rest of us can only imagine how hard his life was. He came to Oakland where he met the woman he called "Honey" and together they raised four children.

As the preacher said, he had seen segregation then integration and then disintegration of his culture. Yet he remained a dignified and hopeful man. A man with an old-time respect for money. When he was really ailing towards the end, his Grandson, my friend, pleaded with him to spend some their savings on his healthcare. Grandpa refused, saying "Those savings are for a rainy day." Grandson replied:"Grandpa, please - it's raining!"

All his family gathered in their home in Berkeley to say goodbye and eat the sweet treats he loved. When his wife of 69 years returned from the cemetery and climbed those steps to their home, it was such a sad moment. But because of her belief in God, she was certain she would hear him say "Honey" again.

It got me to thinking about my final send-off. One of my friends says at her mother's funeral the church was filled with mourners out-the-door and this gave the family comfort to know she had touched so many people's lives. Another friend's mother who lives in a small town says she only wants close friends and family to come: "None of the others come to see me now, why should they come to see me when I'm dead?"

My sisters and I discussed this at length on a bike-ride last Christmas when we were back in Ohope Beach. My sisters had lost one of their best friends, Helena, and after the funeral, the sky turned the same Deflt China blue of Helena's eyes. They took it as a Sign. We decided we would have a Sign too. (Now I'm not totally sure what it would be a sign for...)

Anyone who wants can come to my funeral, except the mean girl at High School who bullied me and the lady who flipped me off in the carpark last Tuesday. Oh, ok, you guys can come too. Everyone will wear white. Special dispensation for my husband and his brother, Dave, who don't suit bright white; you're allowed to wear off-white. All my favorite foods will be served: Mum's banana cake with chocolate icing, roast chicken with mashed potatoes, brussel sprouts and gravy.

Champers will be flowing and people will get squiffy enough to tell fond anecdotes: "Oh, remember what a dag she was at 'Varsity in that lopsided haircut and farmer's singlet she wore as a dress" but not so drunk they will lapse into: "Total slob, horrible flatmate, never rinsed her dishes. Truthfully I only ever put up with her because she was Sue's friend."

And the Sign? My sisters muttered something about white birds flying overhead. My Sign I said was going to be this: it will be raining when everyone goes into the church and then bright sunshine when they come out.

"Wait" said one of my sisters "We have white birds flying overhead but you...you're going to change the weather???"

I stand firm on my Sign. There will be Torrential Rain and there will be Bright Sunshine. I can't wait to see my sisters' faces when it actually happens and I can say "I told you so."

Is it just me...or have you thought this through too?

Princess Diana and Other Obsessions

Doesn't Princess Diana look amazing here? Anyone seen that new movie about her starring Naomi Watts? (Sorry, am way over-posting this week, work deadline avoidance; I just finished arranging the fruitbowl into a pyramid and next I'll be folding the ends of the toilet paper into points). Princess Diana remains to this day my No. 1 Friend I Don't Know, fascinated by everything about her. And like our dog Teddy, you Could. Not. take a bad photo of her.

Princess Diana wearing Catherine Walker

The thing about Diana was that she disobeyed all the fashion police rules - she matched handbag to shoes, she curled her fringe-bangs, she wore blue eyeliner and pale pink lippy. And she wore shiny tights. And she always looked fantastic.

Oops just read Tina's review; the film is a lemon apparently, does not capture Diana's cunning and clever. One thing that annoys me about biopics is when the actor doesn't look anything like them. Naomi Watts is a great actress but looks nothing like Diana -  same with Michelle Williams playing Marilyn Monroe, the difference in looks and figure was really distracting.

I worked for years in Kensington High Street in London, just across the road from Diana's palace-apartment and we'd get sightings of her walking down the street in her Ralph Lauren cap. A photographer at work told me she would keep him updated on her whereabouts and whenever she exited a restaurant she would stand on the steps and do a couple of good poses because he or a colleague was out there. And actually he said that (unlike Tedford our dog) you could take a bad photo of Di, there were loads in the files, but early on newspapers realised that no one wanted to see a bad photo of her.

One day my editor had lunch with Diana and came back very excited about all her revelations (funny asides about Charles and Camilla apparently) but in the end none of it amounted to a headline. The woman may not have been school smart but she was a media genius; she called the shots.

Another day when I was eating at a restaurant round the corner (can't recall the name) I saw Di leaving the private room with Clive James. She stood in the middle of the room and smiled and looked around for a while. She was a dressed in a lemon yellow knit sweater and skirt that would have looked hideous on anyone else. She was even taller and slimmer that she appeared in photos with a much longer face and the most enormous blue eyes. She was the most light-shining stunning person I've ever seen (and I had covered a couple of things with top models.)

More obsessions this week:
Kombucha, a fermented liquid (you have to ignore the communities of floating plankton in it) made in Beverly Hills (!) My go-to in the morning. To my horror some of the flavours now have warnings that it contains alcohol. I found this out when recently when I send on one my kids into buy it and they weren't allowed to. Jeepers, no wonder I felt refreshed afterwards.

Kombucha: stocking up for those mornings you need it

Pican Fried chicken. Food-wise I'm extreme. It's either clear 'Pho with lashings of hot Sriracha sauce (which is nearing extinction apparently) or anything that would delight a truckdriver. On the fried food end of things, none better than the crispy yet softy chicken at an Oakland restaurant called Pican. You can pour truffle honey over it too, the sweet over meat sounds odd, but trust me on this one. My husband took me here the other night as a perk me up. Can a cocktail and fried stuff make me instantly happier, oh I am so much more complicated than that...but yeah, kind of.

Nostalgic photos of Oakland at Pican, via

Pican's fried chicken with the truffle honey, via

Goop: Clarins, Clarisonic and Brazilian hair products. I know what you're thinking: "What? All that and she still looks shite?"

Clarisonic buzzer and other bloppy stuff

Shiny tights: We went to watch the Warriors, (a basketball team) Wednesday night and I was totally transfixed by the cheerleaders' shiny tights, in an anthropological way. Tell you, those tights are very flattering.

"Warriors Girls" in their shiny tights

I'm not the first to notice the Middleton gels have been doing all they can to bring back the controversial shiny tights. (Here, here and FF's place) (please don't call them pantyhose, nails on a chalkboard)

Kate rocking her shiny tights, via

But who wore them best?

Which begs the question. What would Diana have done if she was still around when the Middleton beauts hit the scene?  Would Pippa's bum have sent her into overdrive? I would have given anything to see that...Diana posing on beaches and walking the landmines like nobody's business.


What are your obsessions this week?

All Going Terribly, Terribly Well!

Promised you an update on corralling of kids and turning them into J.Crew ad from the 90's. If you want to feel good about yourself as a parent or human bean read on.

Buttah wouldn't melt

Pic by Lara; they hate having their photo taken so v. glad she told them not to smile. Our concern was Teddy the dog and ensuring she captured his quixotic mix of contemplation and joie de vivre. We needn't have worried.  As Harley, 16, said: "Let's face it; you can't take a bad photo of the old Tedmeister."

Well here is the update on the children for which I am the point person.


I rang Tallulah, 12, on Tuesday.  Greeted by Miley Cyrus' Wrecking Ball and posh lady's voice saying: "Please enjoy the music while you wait." Hang on...I've been put on hold by a 12-year-old girl? OK young lady, 1-0 to you. Let the games begin. There's a storm a'comin.

Yeah, there really was a storm comin'.  Yesterday it totally hosed down - first rain of the year - and I completely forgot to pick up Cy, nine, from school. Found him in sodden t-shirt and shorts quite happily walking home in whipping, stinging rain. When I picked him up he said: "Don't worry I walk home in the rain all the time."

As I said, this is the first time it's rained this year, and this statement confirmed my suspicions about Cy: he has started presenting himself to the outside world as a rugged individualist who climbs Everest before his Weetabix in the morning.

I keep hearing from random parents at the school: "That Cy of yours! What a character! What stories! And so, so independent..."

I've learned not to enquire too deeply because those stories of his tend to:
1. Be a bit fibby
2. Throw Mama Under The Bus

I have had one victory though. A la the mother in Malcom In the Middle. Cy has been buying candy from the corner store on his walk to and fro school. To get him to stop I told him I'd posted a photo of him at the tills with the caption: "Do not sell this boy candy." Cy actually believed me. For one whole month he has been too scared to stop in.

Yesterday we saw camera crews outside. What are they doing here? asked Cy.  I was about to say they're doing a story about kids who buy excessive amounts of candy after school. But that would be kind of mean...wouldn't it?

Jackson has been in abstentia trying out for basketball from 6-8.30am and 3-6pm (poor Kevin has taken him) but sadly was cut today. I texted him: Sorry Jax, you'll always be on my team. I think he appreciated that.

Which gave me the idea, why not occupy kids' time with continuous try-outs? (No doubt against some East Bay by-law. Rats.)

And finally the trickiest. Said to Harley, 16 yesterday:  How about doing Outward Bound in NZ, change your life and all that?"
"I don't want to change my life" he said eating chicken wings "I have a great life.' Point. He goes from watching live Warriors games to watching live Cal games to be taken out to dinner by friends' parents.
"But what about doing rather than all that watching" I pressed "Feel more fulfilled."
"I feel very full" he said scraping chicken bones into garbage. "I just ate 10 chicken wings"

It's going so terribly, terribly well. (Those chicken wings looked good.)

How To Get That Incredible Closet

Thanks for all your great advice and support on the M-M-Meltdown, I've stepped away from the ledge and have taken steps to corral the kids which have had no varying results...I'll tell you about it tomorrow.  In the meantime I thought we'd have a little light diversion from four closet perfectionists who I profiled last weekend here. One small really effective thing I learned from them is to put your stuff in colour order.

Twirly Girly: Susan Koger of Modcloth uses a electric rotating whirlygig like you see in the drycleaners

Mad Men-esque: Designer Shelley Cahan was suprised how popular this very graphic wallpaper and red roof was

Hollywood regency: Laura Francis (whose aunt dressed all the Hollywood greats) has everything displayed which makes her really consider her purchases: if a piece doesn't look good in here, it gets returned.

Baronial Lair flair: This is designer Ken Fulk's second amazing closet, but he still keeps his clothes in black bags with poloroids of the contents attached. 

Ken Fulk's previous closet (read about it here) was out in the open in his loft, a former bondage factory, which was presided over by a stuffed lion. Fulk is on the board of ASPCA but says taxidermy is a "tribute to the animal not a morbid or macabre thing." He also has a giraffe.

I returned to my closet - arrggh!!! which is basically the place I sling my stuff.  I really hope it's not true that you can tell everything about their closet - mine is poorly lit and confused. However I have to say after putting all my clothes in colour order, I was ready, if not quite ready to "shop my wardrobe" as they espouse in all the fashion mags, at least I re-discovered a couple of things I've always liked and never really worn.

I've been cooing over pale pink for some time - especially these gorgiss pink photos over at Inge's place - and realised I've had a very noice indeed pink shirt for nigh-on eight years. But how do I wear this more casually?

Re-dicovered this pale pink eight-year-old Philip Lim shirt. Need to find some way to wear more casually and still be warm (And how can this shirt have curry stains, I didn't even have curry on Saturday night...)

What's your closet philosophy -  Carefully Curated, If In Doubt Chuck It Out or...The More The Merrier?

M-M-Meltdown

The other night I caught the kids scraping their dinner into the garbage and eating bowls of Cookie Crisp cereal that somehow they had smuggled into the house. The end of a very bad day. If I wasn't so angry I would have cried.

Stinson Beach seven years ago. Their first taste of crap cereal. Like crack!

I emailed my husband:

"We need to talk about the kids. I just can't take it anymore. They are home all afternoon from 3pm to 3.30, earlier on a lot of other days, until you get home at 7pm and that is five hours of watching television, fighting, rudeness and me asking them six times to do things and them screaming back at me.

I just feel like crying all the time, I am at my wits' end. I want to do my work but this rage and rudeness from them is just sapping me. I think you might have had a glimpse into it for one week but I don't think you understand what it's like putting up with this day after day, month after month.

At this stage I just want to do my work, I don't want to deal with them anymore. Nothing about being with them is fun or rewarding, there is no point in the afternoon that I feel its all worth it - they are rude, swearing, nasty. I dread getting up in the morning.

The fact that you are now coming home at 7pm instead of 6pm has been extending the day even longer. You either need to start coming home at 6pm every night or just leave bedtime to me. I don't think you realise how awful much that extra hour is.

Harley did nothing all summer for 10 weeks and and since school has done nothing for the last three months. Like Jackson he is full of rage and anger because he doesn't do any exercise. Jackson didn't do the dishes last night, didn't bring in the bins, just screams and curses all the time. Tallulah didn't come home when I told her to, her phone was down as usual and C had to bring her home as she was so late. She lied this morning about taking her pills, just one thing in a thousand interactions that is negative and soul destroying. I've taken her phone off her and she can't walk home this week. 

We need to step in and take measure. I am doing research about boarding schools because I think that is the best option. If he's not at tennis Cy just needs to stay at AdventureTime. 

At this stage too I want to cancel Thanksgiving - or maybe I should go away for a week. I just can't face handling more people."

I recently told a friend that what I liked about blogging was I can write what I like. That's not always true - because I don't want to offend or come across as a shrew. But today I did. This morning I woke up feeling slightly better, a friend had emailed me some boarding schools and it feels like I have a little piece of a security blanket in my back pocket.

What's The View From Your Window?

Have you ever lived in a "transitional" area? Maybe you still do? The sort of neighborhood I just wrote about, where your view is of a enormous billboard of a blonde Beyonce in white sweater and navy short shorts. (The view from my first flat in Acton, London was of a roaring motorway... probably now utterly gentrified and the home to Tara Palmer blahdeblah.)

I recently wrote an article for the SF Chronicle about a local architect building out "transitional" neighborhoods in Oakland, including Dogtown in West Oakland, and I had the chance to talk many residents about what it's really like to live there. The story ended up being very complex, taking a month to complete with interviews of around 30 people and days in the public library. The architect Matthew Baran works with developers re-modeling Victorians and building very modern homes on the double lots behind. The houses generally sell within two weeks for between $500,000 and $1million.

After: Backyard, 59th Street in N. Oakland. Photos: BaranStudio

Before: 59th street

After: Dining room, 59th Street

Before: Dining room

Hannah Street, Dogtown

Willow Street

Willow Street, inside

Louise St, Dogtown

Inside Louise St.

The views from Louise St

Many of the residents I spoke to said they were very proud of the award-winning new homes in Dogtown and they love to surprise friends with a tour of the area. One person added thought that some new residents really wanted to be living up the hill in Rockridge and they're bit bitter they've ended up in Dogtown.

Some of the houses are perfect; story-book Victorians surrounded by Sycamores and fruit trees and pristine cars parked out the front. On one fall day I saw a family hanging out Halloween decorations, their neighbours watering the succulents in their galvanised iron window boxes, a Grandma eating chocolate cake on her porch, a couple of teen girls in their Sunday-best walking home from church and two Steampunk guys fixing their car. But some of the other houses were run-down and at the ends of the roads were tags on the fences and spilled garbage.

There is a tension between new and old residents - one resident says he was burgled four times in his first year but he hasn't been touched in the last six years. He's annoyed by new residents who complain about gun shots when it's just a few firecrackers and a Norteno band on Friday nights at neighborhood parties.

One long-time West Oakland African American grandmother says new residents have complained about the joyful noises coming from their church and have called the police on their young men who are simply talking and laughing in the street.

Another resident says she goes back and forth about wanting to move out but makes sure she says "Hi" to everyone "even the guy who sells drugs at the end of our road."

For sure a sense of optimism and tolerance is key: you need to appreciate the urban views out the window including the massive billboard I mentioned, lately featuring a blonde Beyonce her in her blue shorts and white sweater. One Dogtown resident told me every night she says goodnight  to the large lit-up "E" for "Emeryville" sign that glows over the motorway: "People value the Hollywood sign but I love this E just as much"