I could point to a dozen different points that led me to the decision we’ve made recently, but for me, that’s the moment that stands out: there’s no poop on the street. San Francisco is beautiful, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but it has a serious poop problem, at least in my neighborhood. It didn’t bother me until I had a toddler who routinely bends down and pokes the sidewalk. Now it bothers me a lot.

Point #2: a friend of David’s from high school offered me a job. A year out, he said, but if I’m looking to move, he’s got one waiting for me.

Point #3: I really, really, really hate traveling to visit family over the holidays.

Which led us to a four-hour conversation along the National Highway that boiled down to: maybe we ought to move to Pittsburgh.

The Golden Triangle

I grew up about 50 miles outside of Pittsburgh, but my folks are both from the city. (Although, given that they’ve spent two-thirds of their lives in the country, they’re really from there now.) I said for the longest time I didn’t want to live in southwestern PA again, but I always added this caveat: When my grandmother’s generation is too old to vote, Pittsburgh’s going to be THE place to live. Over vacation, as I watched my grandmother crying as she held Gillian, saying she thought she’d never live to see the day, I thought: Hey, that time is now. Even the Washington Post thinks so.

That probably sounds pretty callous. But for a long time, Allegheny County was old–as old as Miami-Dade County in Florida–and often didn’t want to invest in the things that keep a city thriving. Fortunately, Pittsburgh’s businesses did well on their own: the Steelers could well be renamed the Bankers. Or the Doctors. There’s always been great culture there–Andrew Carnegie, robber baron industrialist extraordinaire, had a great sense of noblesse oblige, and built a handful of museums, and the local universities have taken care of the rest.

But I love San Francisco. I like our apartment–we worked so hard at it! But with the arrival of Gillian, priorities began shifting: I would’ve liked to have my mother around for the bedrest and the NICU and all that. We bought a Murphy bed to get back a few square feet of space. Eliza’s almost 2 1/2, which means she wants to run around. We have to think about the cluster-you-know-what of school selection in SF School District. And honestly? We just don’t have the energy to live in a space so small anymore.

There’s no closing the bedroom door to hide an unmade bed. Letting the dishes linger on the counter. Having a room where the kids leave their toys out, willy-nilly. Where a lot of people go into their basements for their Christmas decorations, we get City CarShare, hop on the freeway and go to our storage space. We install carseats every time we go anywhere by car. These are all things you know, especially if you’ve been reading this blog for a long time.

Here’s a confession: part of the reason I started this blog was to feel better about all those things. It’s OK. It’s no big deal. Sure, it’s a few extra steps, but look! We get to live in downtown San Francisco. I feel a little like we’re selling out–all this time we’ve spent talking about how urban small-space living is great, just fine, and what are we doing? Looking for a three-bedroom house with a finished basement and a real kitchen. But we’ve reached a tipping point: the sacrifices we’re making for our current living situation are beginning to outweigh the benefits. And when that happens, it’s time to cut losses.

The good news is, my company is not only amenable to me working from Pittsburgh, but they want me to start my own team there, a career opportunity that’s as huge as it is surprising. We’re looking at rentals for houses–real houses, with porches and garages–for the same amount of rent we’re currently paying. We’re looking at listings for homes for sale, and it’s not just lookie-loo fantasy shopping. The neighborhoods where we’re apartment-hunting are old, with walkable business districts, tree-lined streets and old brick arts-and-crafts homes. We’ll be able to give the girls a greener life. And we won’t have to count quarters every time we want to do laundry.

No, it’s not San Francisco. I’ll miss my friends here. And also the weather, of course–who’s insane enough to move to Pittsburgh in February? But my long dream-vacation in the city by the Bay has come to an end. And honestly, I have no idea what I’ll be blogging about once we no longer need to build a wall of shelves to hide away extra clothes. We’ll see.

One of the best parts of visiting Grandma, of course, is Grandma’s apartment. David’s mother is a bit of a pack rat, and so her apartment is a treasure trove of ancient wonders: David’s Curious George doll (which has been put in time-out, had his diaper changed, taken for a stroll and fed); original Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls; a town block set that was Ann’s as a child.

The favorites this year, though, have been (what else?) a sparkly elf, whose name is apparently Sneezy, and this divine book of sheet music, which has become our bedtime story.

I don’t know who edited it, but I’m pretty sure that this wasn’t how Noel was spelled, even in the year MCMXXXVIII.

And on this dreary December day in Washington, DC, we took some time to do something I didn’t do growing up: decorated Christmas cookies! My mother loved baking cookies, but baking was always her escape time into the kitchen, so we didn’t do much decorating ourselves.

The search for cookie cutters unearthed all kinds of goodies, like this sifter and these baking cups.

Eliza took charge of shaking salt and pepper onto the cookies.

Grandma’s oven even has a special window where we can watch the cookies bake.

I hope you all enjoy your Christmas cookies as much as we did!

Why Monterey? One, because we went to the aquarium a few years back and I’ve been dying to go back since. And two, because my dad’s into golf and I thought he would like going to Pebble Beach, which is a twenty minute drive from Monterey. I think my exact words to my mother were, “I think it might be pretty special for Dad to visit Pebble Beach.”

It was, if “pretty special” means having lunch at Mr. Hooper’s Store with JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, and lunch is an entree prepared and served by Jacques Pepin, and the entertainment is provided by the film cast of Grease performing the entire soundtrack.

My dad gets excited about stuff, don’t get me wrong: like, REALLY excited about stuff. He finds a Topic of the Day and sticks to it, whether it’s the lake effect or the price of iPads or that time his oldest graddaughter did that funny thing. But I’ve never seen him so in the zone as he was on the 17-Mile Drive. I’d share the multitude of Flip videos that he took, but unless you’re him, you’re unlikely to find them that exciting, as they’re mostly pans of golf greens with him saying things like, “The fourth green at Spyglass” and “Monterey Peninsula” and “Our lunch view.”

My view from the backseat.

The next day, we headed to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, which was wonderful but monstrously crowded, what with the triple threat of a holiday weekend, newly reopened Open Sea exhibit, and baby otter pup. Eliza loved every minute, shouting “Nenenene!” at every tank, which, roughly translated from toddler, means, “Mother, look! It’s the fishes from the wonderful Pixar movie I enjoy so very much!” Back at the house, she napped, Mom and I propped up our feet, and David drove Dad back down to Carmel for Pebble Beach, Day Two. The day was much gloomier and foggier, but that didn’t stop our intrepid cameraman from taking the course by storm.

This green is a big deal.

And so is this one.

And also this one.

And this one, too.

You get the idea.

Of course, he’d tell you that this was the best part of his weekend. And he’d be telling the truth.

Blocks!

Well, mostly.

A few things we learned on our two-week Lodi retreat: Two weeks is good. Two weeks close to home is even better. Two weeks close to home in an inexpensive cottage is pretty well ideal. There was no car-barfing, no traffic tantrum, no need to even stop to go to the bathroom. At just under 100 minutes by car, we didn’t have to stand in line, check our bags, get on a plane, disembark, and spend another ninety minutes on the other end getting to our ultimate destination. At Lodi prices, we were OK with seeing the sights for only three-ish hours a day, and getting back in time for the all-important nap and relaxing dinner. That goes double for spending two weeks in the same place, something we’ve never once done before: with that much time, there’s always tomorrow.

Sure, we went away for three weeks to New Zealand, a wonderful trip the likes of which we won’t experience again, at least until Gillian’s graduated from college. But that was a whirlwind of campground-hopping. Our annual trip back East is anything but restful, as well: it involves flying to Pittsburgh, driving over an hour to my folks’ place for a few days, then driving to Washington, DC (four hours) for a few days, and if it’s summer, another four-hour drive to Cape May, NJ, and then back to Pittsburgh for the flight home (nine hours’ drive). And during the actual stays, we’re visiting with family, friends; all wonderful things, to be sure, but the concept of vacation is tempered by the stress of so much activity and the constant packing and unpacking. (We’ll be making that trip at Christmastime.)

One other thing we learned, though, is that our apartment is definitely not getting any bigger. We always play the wouldn’t-it-be-nice game when we travel, but this time, with two kids and a car and a driveway, our little space station is feeling that much smaller. With one kid, it was doable. With two? We shall see.

By the by, I heartily recommend Lodi as a family getaway. The town center is lovely, the wine is quite good (zinfandel is their flagship grape, but other reds are delicious, too), the weather is hot, and the local park, Micke Grove, is so nice we went back three times to make sure we hit the zoo, the historical museum, and the tea garden. The lake is great–I wish we’d gone back for more–and there’s a children’s science museum, too. The farmer’s market is terrific, as well. And if that’s not enough to convince you, our vacation rental cost almost half as much as any rentals we found along the coast: $900 for a two-bedroom house with an enclosed backyard. We’re seriously thinking about going back again next year, just because we had such a nice, quiet time.

And with that, it’s off to Pebble Beach.

Afternoon in Lodi.

“It has an enclosed backyard, DirectTV, and a view of the vineyards.”

“Does it have a grill?”

“It doesn’t say on the description. But it’s isolated and only a mile or so from town.”

“Can you check with the owner to see if it has a grill?”

“It has a washer and dryer, too.”

“If it doesn’t have a grill I don’t think I want to stay there.”

Such went the conversations leading up to our vacation, until I called the owner and confirmed that the house we would rent absolutely did, without question, have access to a grill. In fact, it was the neighboring home that had the grill, but she assured us we could use it during our stay. The first thing we did after dumping our luggage was go to the other house and drag over the grill, table, and chairs. If we should ever live in a home with outdoor access, I’m quite sure the first thing David will do is buy a grill, and then figure out how to convince me to make everything on it, including lasagna and waffles.

Thus we come to the Food Post. Dinner is always a big deal on our vacations–generally something we address by 10 AM–but when there’s a grill involved, it becomes that much more important. So far, we’ve had steaks, burgers (both great), grilled shrimp (twice), smoked chicken (a colossal failure), and pork chops (a little dry but tasty), accompanied by an assortment of grilled fruits and vegetables. Last night, after a long afternoon of wine-tasting, we agreed we’d relax and have takeout tandoori chicken and leftover rice for dinner, but David couldn’t resist grilling some bread for bruschetta. It’s like a sickness with him. If there are coals to be banked, wood chips to be soaked, or a grate to be scrubbed, he can’t resist.

David likes to take his time cooking. Which is to say, multitasking strikes him as something that rushed type-As do. “That can be served room temp” is his favorite phrase. So if I don’t try to “rush” things a little–say, by suggesting that I prep all the vegetables and start the rice while the grill heats–I can expect to eat no earlier than 9 PM. Usually by the time we eat I’m so hungry that I forget I’m supposed to be a blogger and dive in before I can set a table. Hence photographs like these:

Steak, asparagus and corn. And Flip Flops rose, which is pretty tasty.

But we seem to be hitting a rhythm. If we set out some apps and I demand that we start by 7, we can usually eat right after Eliza’s bedtime at 8. (I prefer to eat earlier, so she can eat with us, but pinning her down can get in the way of a leisurely vacation meal.) And the other night, we achieved meal nirvana through true teamwork: I figured out what we’d have, and without actually telling him to hurry up, prepped the veggies and shrimp, started the rice, and just kept delivering more items to him to grill. He got to grill one thing at a time, and I felt like a nicer Gordon Ramsay, working at the pass while my chef did the heavy lifting. And the result was that I had the time and foresight to set up a decent photograph (which, really, is the most important thing, right?).

Shrimp over rice and grilled vegetables.

That’s grilled shrimp served over grilled nectarines, zucchini, roasted red peppers and flavored rice. The rice, by the way, is a result of a terrific shortcut we bought at the San Joaquin County Fair, a product called H&H Brand 30-Second Salsa. For $22, we got a tub of goodness that’s basically the high-end equivalent of a McCormick spice packet. The general idea is to toss a scoop of the stuff with a can of diced tomatoes, and presto! Fresh salsa! but, of course, you can use it for whenever you’re feeling lazy. I didn’t have any crushed red pepper flakes on hand, so after the rice was done cooking, I threw in a half a scoop of H&H and we got some deliciously spicy Spanish-style rice. I’m hoping the shelf life will last as long as it’ll take us to get through the 1-pound can. San Francisco friends, expect us to bring sour cream dip and salsa to all future parties.

Still in store for grilling: aged marinated beef; scallops; maybe smoked halibut and grilled pizza. We have one more week, and we mean to run this propane tank empty.

And here’s proof.

Happy time

This is at the end of a five-minute stump speech she gave.

Peas in a squirmy pod!

I usually hate clowns, but this guy just screams summer fun.

Even so, by the time I moved to New York City, five years later, I swore to myself I’d never go to another sweaty, stinky county fair. But then I sat in a publishing editorial meeting in which someone pitched a county fair recipe book, and listened to a group of Manhattanites–half or so born and raised in one of the five boroughs–wax poetic on the rustic charm of county fairs. Despite my own pell-mell bolt from the legacy of the Demolition Derbys and truck pulls and port-a-johns, or perhaps because of it, I felt thoroughly insulted. My superior knowledge of the fair proved, to me, how little they know about “rustic charm”: manure, Demolition Derbys and classic rock aren’t exactly what Norman Rockwell had in mind.

Just a little nibble?

More important, though, I felt insulted in a distinctly nobody-beats-up-my-brother-but-me way. They were kind of complimenting county fairs, sure, but in the patronizing manner of purebred city folk. These people wouldn’t last the week at the Greene County Fair, I knew. They’d spend three days soaking up rustic charm and the next four complaining about the dearth of good restaurants and theaters. That meeting helped me see that the chip on my shoulder had grown so big that I wasn’t even willing to admit that I hadn’t always been miserable in the country; in fact, the fair was always a great time. I didn’t have to go to the truck pull, but damn, those rides were fun.

Dig that crazy cool sign!

Imagine my joy, then, when last Friday’s fair outing featured some of my favorite rides. I couldn’t actually ride them, of course, with the kiddos in tow, but the eye-watering beauty of the day made from some great pictures. This is the Gravitron: it blasts music and spins around, and its spaceship shape allows you to literally climb the walls when centripetal force kicks in. I remember being plastered to the ceiling at one point.

Gravitron.... 2000!

I don’t remember this one, but I sure love its concept. I don’t think it actually lights on fire, but I’m sure at night it’s a beauty.

You're goin' down, down, down...

And this, The Zipper, the greatest fair ride ever. The cars go around the center; the center rotates; and the cars can spin, given enough motivation by the riders. It’s just close enough to nausea to make it worthwhile, but never so bad as to make you actually throw up, unless it’s from laughter.

Best. Ride. Ever.

After touring the rides, snagging a corn dog, winning a ladybug at the darts, and pointing out every goat, sheep and cow to Eliza (“Maa!” “Baa!” “Moo!”) we headed for the cool interior of the exhibit halls to check out the jams, jellies, cake decorating, scrapbooks (that’s a contest now?), and Eliza’s favorite, the ceramics decorating. She saw this angel and went bananas; I couldn’t figure out why until I realized she was saying “Tink!” My little heathen daughter thinks all ladies with wings are Tinkerbell.

"Tink!"

On the way, we enjoying the dulcet tones of a local cover band belting “Enter Sandman” from the small stage; carnies shouting about the cheapest game on the Midway; and learned the true meaning of disappointment when we realized we’d missed the pig races. I can’t wait for next year.

Even Cheese Central which isn’t part of the farmer’s market, has great prices. They sell little 3-ounce bits of cheese called “mousetraps,” ranging in price from $1 to $3, and I’m telling you, Cowgirl Creamery needs to jump on that bandwagon. What better way to taste some delicious cheese than to buy only enough to get you through one evening’s appetizer? They also sold some gourmet condiments (of course) and we bought an outstanding spicy corn relish for $7. Which isn’t exactly the price of Smuckers, but it was also 16 ounces of pure heaven when loaded onto a grilled pork chop.

Did I mention that yesterday’s 95-degree heat gave over to 84 degrees of sunny, breezy June beauty today? I napped on a picnic blanket in the backyard for an hour this afternoon. And spent not a few minutes watching the wind breeze through the prettiest birch tree I’ve ever seen.

We’re having a fine time.

Rose, stinky cheese and peppered salmon.

Our cottage, which is fairly isolated from the town, is two miles from the main shopping drag. The downside is it means our first glimpse of town is a depressing string of strip malls featuring Safeway and CVS and Staples and Target. The upside is that we’re only two miles from Safeway and CVS and Staples and Target. Granted, in the city Safeway’s only a mile away, but that’s WALKING distance. And the nearest Target is all the way across the city, and requires either a 40-minute drive by car or a 60-minute ride by BART. I bought a baby pool for $12.99 at Target the other day. Bliss.

Sure, the pinko commie liberal in me is complaining that all those Big Box Stores Are Wiping Out Main Street. But I live in downtown, and order from Amazon once a week because I can’t get to anywhere that has the stuff I actually need, like size newborn Huggies Pure & Natural and those baby wipes I like. Target has that stuff, and a whole bunch of other awesomeness for cheaper than dirt. And it’s all $20 or less and pretty cute in a mass-produced, dumbed-down design kind of fantastic way.

So we’re on Day Three of our Oh Lord, Stuck In Lodi Again Tour, and I’m still happy as a clam. Tomorrow we’re hitting the San Joaquin County Fair. Yesterday I bought a baby pool, today I bought farmer’s market cherries, and tomorrow, I’m buying me and mine a funnel cake.

Take this vacation we’re on. The house and grounds are nice enough. It’s a well-landscaped backyard, although the fenced-in water feature is overfull and has turned the only walkway into a bit of a swamp. But the plants are lovely, and I’m writing this from the sun-dappled warmth of a wisteria arbor. The whole site is enclosed (there’s another cottage on the property) and while the bordering two-lane road has an unsettling Pet Sematary feel to it, the giant gate keeps toddlers safely in bounds.

I had a few things on my list to do during this stay: 1) Drink coffee and read outside in the morning; 2) Read outside in the afternoon; 3) Have wine and/or beer in the evening, outside. All without a jacket. So this morning, once I finally got Gillian to sleep, I dressed Eliza and headed out for the backyard, at which point she began shrieking and ran for the back door. (I should add that since yesterday, she decided she despises shoes.) I brought her back out and set her on the grass. She complained. I pointed out the plants. She shook her head. The tractor driving by through the neighboring vineyard cheered her momentarily, but then she headed for the back door again.

After explaining that no, we would NOT be watching more TV, I tried the front door. The driveway between the cottages is tiled with stone, and it has a quasi-natural curvy appeal, like a big Zen garden with stone to represent water. I pointed out to her that there’s no grass in the front, only pavement, and couldn’t we go in the back?

She loved it.

Her idea of a yard.

She didn’t beg to go back inside. She didn’t complain about the lack of grass; she reveled in it. We spent a good half hour walking up and down the paved driveway, chatting, and the few times she ventured off the pavement, it was to try out the stepping stone walkways (which she did not like, probably due to the fact that she’d taken off her shoes and the gravel hurt her tender feet). To her credit, she did spend some time moving gravel from one side of the driveway to the other.

At the risk of sounding overly nostalgic, I spent my summer days running around our backyard barefoot, traipsing through ankle-deep onion grass and dandelions, toughening my feet on our gravel driveway that was really more a rock driveway, wading through creeks and stepping on god-knows-what (sometimes requiring a tetanus shot for my troubles). My daughter, though, child of a downtown apartment, where going for a walk means pointing out motorcycles and buses and garbage trucks rather than trees and birds, prefers toddling around a fully-paved, landscaped driveway.

I guess I’m a little sad about that. As much difficulty as I had going to school in rural Pennsylvania, my summer memories are always awash in a crepuscular glow of orange and green, swinging on a tire swing, night swimming and popping tar bubbles on the road. Eliza’s life experience will be so completely different that I can barely conceive of it. That’s not good or bad, mind you; it just means that will be a history we won’t share. But my mom, who grew up in the shadow of the steel mills of Braddock, PA, managed to adjust to raising three kids in the country. I’ll have to do the same.

For the San Franciscans keeping score, that's a mostly naked baby and me in spaghetti straps. At 8 PM.

June gloom has descended upon San Francisco. There’s a story that Mark Twain once said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” Sure, it’s probably apocryphal, but it’s nonetheless true: while everyone else is pumping on the A/C and diving into swimming pools, San Franciscans are piling on layers and diving into three-blanket beds. It’s the price we pay for mild weather: it’s always some degree of mild, and never too hot or cold. Which sounds great, and IS great, but as a born-and-raised Pennsylvanian, I long for summer evenings on the porch, clasping a beer in one hand and pushing up the strap of my sundress with the other. (Outdoor evenings here mean huddling under a heatlamp and cupping a hot toddy.)

So tomorrow, we’re heading east: about two hours east, to be exact, to Lodi, California. It’s a town south of Sacramento, in the heart of the Central Valley, and with its own respectable little wine country. We’ve rented a two-bedroom house with a back and front yard, washing machine, and BBQ. In other words: we’re playing house for two weeks. David’s worried that we’ll be bored–Lodi’s fairly sleepy, and doesn’t have much other than wineries–but the way I figure it, I’d rather be bored in a house with a backyard than in our apartment. The most important thing, though, and the reason I picked Lodi, is that the average temperature for the next week is around 84. Which means I might even get to sit outside past 4 PM without requiring a sweater. Huzzah!

That also partially explains my sewing frenzy. Eliza has no summer dresses, and as I mentioned last week, now she has five. (I didn’t include two of them in that post.) And now she has a very cute little capri-pants-and-top outfit, finished just this morning. Sure, it was supposed to have a zipper and a big bow in the back, but really, why gild the lily [and spend an extra two hours figuring out how to properly tie a bow and install a zipper]?

Crazy fabric from the Fabric Outlet!

I’ll continue posting from Lodi on our fancy new laptop, but not as often as I have been. After we get back, it’s a whirlwind tour of Monterey and San Francisco with my parents; then July’s rolling around, when we’ll be doing some serious potty training.

One last thing: Happy birthday to my little brother, Jimmy. Who is six inches taller than me and goes by “Jim” these days, but he knows he’ll always be Jimmy to me. Dude, you are so TOTALLY OLD.